Virtue of the Vicious
by YourLooksHaveBecomeAProblem
Summary: Narcissa Black: She represented power as old as magic blood, the assured legacy of those truly pure, and the unyielding strength of the nobility. Her life is the breathing legend of a woman who did not care to live forever, but ensured her story would...
1. Chapter 1

The wind blew through the trees, the rain dripped through leaves, and the lake jumped at the chance of catching one of those pretty little drops. Narcissa loved the rain. From the Slytherin Common Room, in the dungeons, and under the lake, there was no way to watch it. Thus, the youngest Black sister had settled into the quietest corner of the Library, her Genevieve Odwalt's _Witchcraft __in __Eighteenth __Century __Europe_ up on bent knees that leaned against the table's edge, watching and reading. Her cousins, friends, and other Slytherins were lamenting the spring showers from their cold home under the ground, avoiding homework, chasing a stolen snitch, or gossiping. But Narcissa preferred the quiet, preferred to be by herself.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The weather reminded her sweetly of days spent in the Black Manor, playing through the empty, quiet house after her sisters had come of Hogwarts age. The elves would call her the little mistress when her mother shopped and her father went to work. She would bewitch rabbits to fly and books to speak, cabbage to lie and tongues to sleep. It was peaceful, it was lovely. It was her own little world. As she had grown older it became less and less prudent to dwell within it, as her far away eyes often caused her peers at school to mistake her for cold. (Though, to be fair, they likely would've assumed this anyway, as her long, white blonde hair, porcelain skin, and wide, dark blue eyes- not to mention a hefty, healthy arrogant streak- did not exactly instill a sense of warmth or comfort in an eleven year old.)

Narcissa sighed, releasing her shoulders from the precise posture she rigidly maintained from day to day, as was expected of a girl of her class and age. A smile danced pleasantly across her lips, for at this moment everything was all very tranquil.

"There you are!" Narcissa's smile broke into a wide grin and a small laugh as she recognized the voice— it's owner perhaps one of the few people she would easily allow to disrupt her peace.

"Yes, Aurelia, I'm right here," she responded as her cousin slipped smoothly into the seat across from her, chaos swinging from her dark blond hair and mirth leaping lovingly from each of her deep, dark eyes.

"Lord, it's large in here!" Aurelia declared, her eyes wide in emphasis. "I've been looking for you for ages. The funniest thing happened down in the Common Room: Rabastan was bragging to Lucius about how quickly he could catch the snitch— and we all thought he was being mighty stupid as Lucius already knew he could catch, they're on the same bloody quidditch team— anyway! He was going after it and had it just beyond his fingertips when Titus tripped him and he swallowed it! He swallowed it!"

Narcissa laughed, when it came to the pureblood boys of her generation, there was never a time when the 'my stick is bigger than yours' game wasn't appropriate. It was foolish. But it was also hilarious. As the last chuckles faded from Narcissa's mouth, it occurred to her that she couldn't recall the last time her cousin had been in the library, certainly not since Narcissa had been in Hogwarts. She wouldn't have wandered through the massive rooms just to tell her this— an anecdote that would no doubt have been expressed to her from at least three different voices the moment she stepped foot back in the common room.

"Aurelia," Narcissa cooed, extending each vowel for effect.

"Yes?" The girl had been looking up and around at the many aisles and corridors within the library, mystified.

"Don't I think I believe for a second that's what you came here to tell me."

"Whatever could you mean, dear cousin?" Aurelia smirked, her lips moving slowly, heavy with the weight of her secret.

"Spill." Narcissa demanded with delight. She loved secrets. Especially hearing new ones. Also, she hated waiting.

"Andromeda-eloped-with-A-MUGGLE-BORN!" Aurelia released in one long breath, too nervous- or maybe excited- to separate her words properly.

"What?" Narcissa shrieked, anger flooding her heart.

"ANDROMEDA-ELOPED-WITH-A-MUGGLE-BORN!" Aurelia repeated with increasing enthusiasm.

"Lia, I heard you the first time." Narcissa snapped, her shock smothering her warmth toward her cousin. "_What_ on _earth_ was she _thinking_?" Andromeda had always been rebellious toward their way of life, being the only member of the family not sorted into Slytherin in nearly two centuries, but Narcissa never believed her sister's time in Ravenclaw would have swayed her _this __far_.

"I know, right? Mum just owled me, she told me to tell you _immediately_ as your mother has apparently refused to speak to _anyone_ since she found out this morning. Your father told Mum she's already blasted Andromeda off the tree!"

"Serves the little blood traitor right!" Narcissa exclaimed, outraged by Andromeda's defiance. Muggle borns— and half-bloods, for that matter— were a disgrace to their society— an infection upon their kind that was only dealt with due to their large numbers. Were you born into the ruling class you shall never— never!— allow yourself to fall beneath your rank. It was as if Andromeda had lain down in a pit of ants and allowed them to feast on her from the inside out— beginning with the entrails and ending with the flesh.

"What a disgrace," Narcissa spat, each syllable laced with a wicked venom.

Aurelia, who agreed, but was much more passive about the whole subject, simply nodded enthusiastically. Noticing the funny manner in which her dear cousin's nostrils flared whenever she was this angered. She mimicked Narcissa's face, finding it greatly amusing.

"Are you mocking me, Aurelia?" Narcissa snapped, her large eyes flashing.

A wide smile ran swiftly across Aurelia's mouth before it burst gleefully into cheeky laughter. "Absolutely!"

Were it anyone else, Narcissa would've been offended. But she truly couldn't help herself. She erupted into laughter, silently admitting to the absurdity of her angry habits.

"Can we go now?" Aurelia whined. "I don't like it in here, it's dreadfully cold."

Narcissa's laughter quieted and a small 11 formed between her eyes. She loved this quiet, this peace. Even with Aurelia giggling and dancing about in her seat at every calm second it was worlds quieter than the raucous and jovial uproar of the Common Room. At her cousin's hesitation, Aurelia threw her arms out in front of her and bowed her head until it connected with the aged mahogany of the table top, her dark blonde hair rushing forward like waves over her shoulders.

"Please, Cissy? I've got my N.E.W.T.S coming up and this room makes me feel hopelessly dim. You should be encouraging my intelligence, not trapping me in a prison of pointing fingers and laughing faces!"

Narcissa rolled her eyes— a rare physical manifestation of the biting sarcasm she kept thoroughly under wraps, for it was not behavior a proper young woman should engage in. "You're so melodramatic."

"I know, Cissy, but I've only got a little time left in Hogwarts, I should be spending it making happy memories, not realizing how frightfully senseless my seven years in this frigid castle have made me! You can't possibly make me remain in this drafty hell any longer, it's too cruel! Too, too cruel!"

As Aurelia raised her head to pout emphatically at Narcissa, she noticed the girl had in fact already packed up her things, and was standing, watching the show and waiting for the silly seventh year to be done with her monologue— an eyebrow raised in apprehension and amusement. Aurelia jumped up, ecstatic— simply stating, "I'm glad you see my point."

Narcissa smiled at her cousin's silliness, linking arms with the beloved girl as they exited the library. "You aren't really worried about your N.E.W.T.S., are you?"

Aurelia laughed a quick, sharp laugh. "Course not! I'll have those judges eating out of the palm of my hand." She turned and looked at Narcissa, "you should enjoy your sixth year exams, though— they're the easiest you'll come by at Hogwarts."

"They better be," Narcissa exclaimed, her meaning somewhat serious, as her birthday this year fell on the first testing day. "I'm sure as shit not worrying about a potions exam the day I finally come of age."

"Cissa!" Aurelia was not used to the demure little witch cursing graphically, or even cursing at all, for that matter. The icy blond usually upheld the protocol that was expected of them, elegantly avoiding any situation which would require breaking the traditional rules. Rules Aurelia did not feel too compelled to follow, as she was all but certain she would be arranged to be married not long after she graduated.

"You know," Narcissa said slowly. "I was going to leave soon anyway. It's past curfew."

"Lies," Aurelia responded quickly, matching the tone of their heels click-clacking along the stone, echoing off the wall. "You never worry about curfew when you hole yourself up in there."

Narcissa shook her head, not bothering to argue with the girl, her bright blond hair following the movement of her head, the looming light of the torches attaching itself longingly to each strand.

It was in this process that Lucius found the girls. He had been making his obligatory after hours rounds— one of the many mandatory tasks that accompanied his prefect status that he often blew off— and had heard the _click__clack__click__clack_ of their walk. Bored, he had followed, knowing he'd either find a group of fourth year girls who were _very_ easily swayed by his authority and charms, or this pair. It was perhaps the one case in which he was glad _not_ to run into a group of impressionable young girls, for the sight before him was nothing short of incredible.

For the briefest of moments, the dim light had jumped forward and played within the length of Narcissa's hair, appearing so closely to rays of the sun. It hit him like a ton of bricks. He was keenly aware that had he rounded the corner any later he would have missed it. He must remember to point this moment out to Aurelia the next time she mocked him for allowing the head that resided in his pants to do the thinking.

Except, he had no need to. For as soon as the two girls had turned the corner and noticed their fellow Slytherin, his fascination had been abundantly clear. Aurelia looked to her right, at Narcissa, and could not see any extraordinary reason for Lucius to be so obviously and rudely staring— this was how her cousin always looked. She shrugged, perhaps he had been hit one too many times by Titus's rogue bludgers today. But then her brilliant abilities in all matters of the heart caught up to her in a rush, and a wicked smirk leaped lavishly across her lips. _Lucius __Malfoy_, she thought, _Lord, __are __you __screwed_.

"Did you fall off your broom today, Malfoy?" Narcissa quipped. "You look like a guppy out of water."

Aurelia's head snapped towards her cousin and her eyes widened in gleeful shock. What had gotten into the youngest little Black? Lately she had seemed so forward in comparison to her regular self.

Lucius too was shocked. He had never— never— heard Narcissa be so brazen. He realized it was expected that he respond, thus he did so in the only way he could. "You do realize you're out far beyond curfew, and as a prefect I may have to do something about it."

Narcissa smiled a coy little smile, running her fingers though her hair and bringing it to settle on her right shoulder. "Oh, yes, you simply _must_," she agreed emphatically, and linked her right arm in his left, gesturing to Aurelia to do the same. "You just _have_ to escort us back to the Common Room, it would be the only sensible option at this hour."

Lucius looked dumbfounded, but obeyed, and began walking the two girls down in the direction of the dungeons.

Aurelia watched her little cousin with wide, amused eyes until Narcissa questioned, "Are you alright, Aurelia? If your eyes get any larger I dare say they'll pop out of your head."

Cheeky little brat. "Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Are _you_ alright?" Aurelia asked pointedly.

"Of course."

This is why Lucius did not often spend time with women, or rather _listen_ to women. As— in all great truth— he did spend a great deal of time with girls, but was usually lying on top of them, leaning up against them, or remaining tantalizingly, teasingly just out of reach. What was this game she was playing at?

As they entered the Common Room under the lake, Lucius turned toward Narcissa smirking, and slowly snaked an arm around the small of her back, the other— free after Aurelia had quickly released it, rushing off to smile and exchange pretty words with Titus Burke— played with the bottom length of her hair.

"Any time you're out after hours, in need of an escort, Miss Black," he purred, his dark grey eyes clouding over with excess amounts of cunning. "I'll know where to find you."

Narcissa's brazen smile receded slightly. Suddenly, her stomach had grown wings as delicate as a hummingbird's and taken flight, quickly surging up towards her throat, her uncharacteristic words buzzing with questions, seeking refuge at the back of her mouth. "Yes. Now you do." She said a little too quickly and slipped out of his grasp, walking with a slight haste toward the stairs leading to the female dormitories.

Aurelia looked up from Titus, and noticed Narcissa's flight. Oh _no_, she lamented, what a conflict. After a moment of thought, her curiosity over her cousin's sudden peculiar behavior won out over the delicious warmth that began in her middle and radiated outward every time Titus began to explain a simple potion technique they had learned back in their fifth year. She rose from her seat upon the armrest of his chair, intentionally allowing her skirt to momentarily linger at a teasing height before she departed with a smile and a promise.

Once she was out of Titus's line of vision, she rushed up the stairs, practically bursting with questions. But when she finally arrived at Narcissa's dorm, the girl beat her to the punch: "What the bloody hell was I doing?"

Aurelia settled in next to her on her bed, closing the privacy curtains just in case Narcissa had any especially juicy secrets to divulge that would motivate such strange behavior. She wrapped up Narcissa's blanket around her shoulders and sighed, finally comfortable. "My thoughts exactly."

Narcissa's forehead knotted, her lips pouted, and her head reeled. Usually, she refrained herself from allowing her thoughts to tumble freely off her tongue into the wide open air. It wasn't right. Not for a woman of her class and birth. Narcissa tugged at a section of her hair and began to plait it. Her head swam with Transifguration essays and Charms lessons, with pureblood rules to live by and expectations of the future. Deftly, her fingers weaved— in and out, up and over— plaiting, methodically.

Aurelia watched, concerned, curious. Narcissa had reached the end of one plait and had begun another, crafting many ropes within her mane. As she watched, it occurred to Aurelia how restless Narcissa had become lately, how much more time she had spent by herself in the library, by the lake, up in the astronomy tower. Each time returning with the look of a weary traveler, as if in the time on her own she had undergone a full cycle of birth-life-death twice over. Often, she would turn to one of their friends and appear as if she was about to say something, but would always stop herself, holding the remark within, and usually smiling at the sound of it as it echoed off the opinions of her innards.

It had gone unnoticed, as Narcissa had always been a quiet child, and this behavior as an adult was a most admired quality in a pureblood woman. But under closer inspection it began to occur to Narcissa and her concerned confidant that perhaps the return of her childhood habits and peculiar outbursts were an unsatisfactory reaction to her surroundings. To her reality. To the life that was almost certain to develop into her future. She was torn, between what she felt she ought to be— what she wanted to be— and what the organs of her consciousness ached for her to be. As this dawned on Narcissa, she gathered it all up, molded it with care into a sphere, and placed it at the farthest reaches of the distant world within her eyes. She smiled at Aurelia.

"Lord, perhaps I should start taking that morning potion you mentioned a few days ago. Has it helped you? My hormones must be all over the place," Narcissa said, her sweet smile lacing each and every syllable.

"Yes, it does. Every girl in my dorm takes it. It helps a lot," Aurelia responded quietly, noticing the far away gleam in Narcissa's eye, and the sly way in which she had pushed away all of Aurelia's questions.

As her cousin spoke about "those silly hormones— how they affect us all at this age!" Aurelia was transfixed by the strange, terrifying, beautiful creature she had finally transformed into, and understood with a particular weight in her throat— where the tongue meets judgment, and great, wild tears gather before sobs— that until Narcissa could reconcile the world of her creation with the world of their reality, this restlessness would never cease.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yeeeeeooooooooaaaaaaaaaa," Aurelia howled with felicity as she jumped from the greatest heights of an ancient elm tree that resided on the west bank of the lake. She plunged forward, her form slicing through the air like the golden arrows of myth that aided young knights in winning the hearts of their dear maidens. Rush. Rush. _Wosh_. (wish) The wind nipped at her ears and kissed away her blinding tears. Her heart, feeling the flustering force of her fall, fled fancifully to the center of her throat, wanting desperately to be a part of the first organs to escape the confines of this flighty little girl should she make the mistake of opening her mouth once she finally collided with the fearsome, fluid animal just below. It was not that it was a cruel heart, as it would naturally appear, forsaking its owner as tremendously as it was now— it was simply _tired_. For if it had to leap **one ****more ****time** at the _mere __sight_ of that silly Titus boy it may just give this cold world up and refuse to beat. It was _insufferable_, being slave to the hormonal highs and lows of an affluent teenage girl. (_Perhaps_, her heart ventured to guess_, __that __it __could __handle __this __stage __had __she __not __been __so __wealthy, __so __pretty, __so __charming__— __so __used __to __having __her __way_. These good fortunes caused the girl to be highly unused to the realities of life that a poor, homely girl would perchance understand by now.)

_SPLASH!_

As Aurelia sank deep below the brink of water, she slowed, enjoying the weight of it. Shockingly, it was not smothering, as a human experience under water was typically described as being. Rather, it was loving, comforting, relaxing— until her lungs wrenched, searching for the last vapor of oxygen in her empty chest cavity. _Shit!_ She wriggled her legs quickly, attempting to propel herself upwards at the greatest possible speed.

"Yes!" she cried with satisfaction as she burst through the surface. _What_ a rush! It was magnificent! Being so close to another world, so far from the typical boundaries of her own! It was her favorite victory! (Incidentally, her heart settled back to its warm and squishy home, lamenting its owner's ability to cheat so many rules.)

"Woo!" she whooped gleefully as she emerged like Venus from the crashing waves. "I am the Athena's Nike, for no force can hinder me!"

Narcissa erupted into drunken laughter, rushing forward to wrap her arms around her cousin, partially stumbling, partially engulfing the girl until they fell to the ground, rolling in the rough sand.

"You're mad! Absolutely mad!" She covered Aurelia's face in relieved, sloppy kisses— _slap!_ "Why did you do that, you crazy pain in the arse! You could have died! You're not allowed to die on my seventeenth birthday!"

"Ow! Calm down, you crazy cow! There's no need to hit me! I'm not going to die!"

Narcissa pouted, partially because the wet, slick waves had caused her clothes to cling to her skin in a most revealing manor— and even though she was mostly inebriated, she was still slightly sober enough to know that it was improper— but mostly because Aurelia had so cavalierly brushed away her concern.

"It's my birthday," she said, the pout becoming her so thoroughly that even her words adopted the attitude.

"Aw, Cissy," Aurelia cooed, gathering the little blond witch up in a great lovely hug. She kissed the crown of her head. "For the hundredth time today, happy birthday, dearest! You're officially the freshest carcass on the meat market!"

Narcissa laughed and made a strange, cacophonous sound— perhaps the closest the demure pureblood would ever come to a snort. "Speaking of which, where are the boys?" she shook her head. "And where is the firewhiskey?"

Aurelia laughed a short, sharp laugh. "How should I know? I just spent the last fifteen minutes climbing that enormous tree over there!"

Narcissa rose. "Well com'on then!" She yanked on Aurelia's arm. "Let's go find them!"

Aurelia stood and Narcissa snickered. "I can see your knickers!"

"What?" Aurelia glanced down and shrieked with laughter. "Fuck 'n' 'ell!" She retrieved her wand from an inner pocket of her robes, focusing all her energy on remembering how to perform a proper concealment charm.

"All better," Narcissa sang, the serenest of smiles spreading across her lips as she skipped along next to Aurelia.

Her eyes swept the shore line, searching for Titus. So consumed was she, searching for her favorite paramour, that she did not notice Narcissa stop abruptly, only hearing her question faintly on the periphery of her consciousness.

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm," she responded.

Narcissa's eyes sparked with excitement. "Wonderful!"

Suddenly, Aurelia was aware of the full weight of another human being on her back. She stumbled, but caught herself before the two girls tumbled to the sand. "Narcissa! _What_ are you doing?"

Narcissa wrapped her arms around her cousin for extra leverage. "Lili!" she whined in response. "My feet hurt and you agreed to carry me!"

Aurelia laughed at Cissa's behavior. Miss prim and proper behaving so silly and drunk. It was lovely!

"Lili!" Narcissa said suddenly, sounding alarmed. "_Where_ is my birthday cake? You said you had it? Did you misplace it? Where did you put it?"

"Calm down, will you?" Aurelia responded, trudging on. "You think I can carry you and a great big cake 'round with me? What? Do I have an extra special pocket for all the pastries I keep on my person?"

"No," Narcissa responded seriously. "If you did I would've seen it when your knickers showed through your robes."

Aurelia reeled with laughter, stopping when she noticed Lucius watching them from the informal head of the casual group of boys below the ancient elm tree. She bounded confidently toward them, a fierce defiance in her eye.

Narcissa giggled, feeling the shift in her cousin's demeanor, knowing the walk. "What's wrong, Lili?" she questioned, extending her _s_ like a slippery little snake. "Who's made you angry now?"

"He watches you too much." Aurelia stated bluntly.

Narcissa curled the delicate little hairs near Aurelia's temple around her index finger. "Who—" She looked up, saw the eyes, met the gaze, knew the thrill. "Oh." She released her legs from her cousin's waist, her feet sinking minutely into the sand when she landed. "Him."

"Yes. Him."

Narcissa's mind clouded over with heady flashes of dreams she had not yet seen: the release of a gasp, the tugging of hair, fingers digging into skin, reckless kisses, anxious words, the explosion of a name, the expression of every four letter word within her comprehension. She released her breath slowly, desperately trying to cease the current path of her thoughts. Mother Nature surrounded her in the smile of the sea, knowing the ache deep within the wells of what made Narcissa a woman all too well.

The sudden gush of sea breeze aided Narcissa's pursuit to purge her mind of lustrous, lusting longings for Lucius. But they did not cease. And the girls were soon approaching their dwindling group of comrades. _Shit._

"Where did the rest of the girls disappear to?" Narcissa questioned, her voice low as she wished to only address Aurelia.

"They went back to the dormitory. They can't handle their shit." Narcissa smiled. Firewhisky certainly inspired a variety of personalities in her dear cousin.

Air escaped the small fissure between her pouting lips as Lucius had finally dropped his gaze, turning towards Abrux Rosier, discussing some political matter she had less than zero interest in. She settled in beside Aurelia with the boys under the tree, resting her back against the wide trunk. She closed her eyes for a moment, relishing in the wind's capability to catch hold of her senses and deliver her for the briefest of moments to her place of peace. She shut out the chatter, the chill of the air, the light of the moon that fought with her eyelids— pitilessly prying open each eyelash in its relentless attempt to ground her to the environment she currently wished a break from. She sighed in one quick breath. Her friends were lovely, to be sure. But the quiet was all the more beautiful.

While Lucius had turned himself physically towards Abrux, his awareness of Narcissa had never ceased— not since he had held her close in the common room that inexplicable night, desperately attempting to establish the dominance between them he maintained with all other people. He was consumed with thoughts of her: her prim nature— and the curious ways in which she had broken from it lately— her arrogance— oh, how her arrogance warmed his pride with delectable prejudice— her fragility— he found it outstandingly endearing how fiercely she labored to hide it. He could not help but watch her, both praying she did not notice and pressing on further in hopes she did. She was bewitching, with her silvery hair that flitted about in the wind like a transient dragonfly, her milky skin that appeared eerily otherworldly in the dim light of the moon, her wide blue eyes with their ever so evasive gaze. The distance of her eyes! It drove him mad— snagged at his consciousness like a sewing needle on silk— he coveted it more than anything else in the world. He wanted it— to possess it until it diminished and was replaced by an incomparable spark of light.

Although Narcissa's eyes had remained closed, she could feel the eyes of another upon her. Carefully, she allowed her eyelids to flutter just slightly— enough to sneak a peek. Her breath caught in her throat, rattling around within the muscle-tube like a rogue thunderbolt roaring with passion. She felt a heat spread over her skin with remarkable momentum, desperately praying it did not manifest as a blush upon her cheeks. His words haunted her—_"__I__'__ll __know __where __to __find __you.__"_ She could not help but think of him finding her in the library— all that quiet, empty room— with so many flat surfaces to take advantage of. _No!_ She struggled against the wanting whims of her mind, but to no avail, for there was no fighting the intoxicating forms that materialized so effortlessly.

No. She shook her head. Willing herself rid of the wanton scenes that danced deliciously across the plains of her consciousness. They weren't lady like, they weren't her. Even before, when she had dated boys, these thoughts never occurred. She opened her eyes, and surveyed the group before her. She could not help but laugh, for they were a sorry lot at this stage: Rabastan— as a result of the firewhiskey or another unusual substance, she could not tell— was rolling about on the ground, remarking on how _marvelous_ it all felt— the dirt, the grass, the knots of the raised tree trunks were just so "_fantastic.__"_ Abrux had disagreed with Lucius on some useless matter to such an extreme extent, that he had challenged Lucius to dislodge the trunk of a nearby tree, to which Lucius had declined, finding muggle expressions of strength to be tawdry and entirely useless. At this, Abrux was outraged and went after the tree himself, wrenching it ruthlessly from the ground.

Lucius scoffed. "Mine as yell to every girl in Slytherin 'I've got a tiny prick!'" he muttered arrogantly.

"Shit!" Titus exclaimed, glancing away momentarily from the pretty pureblood in his lap as the loud _craaaaaaaaaaaack_! resounded through the air with a fearsome ferocity. Aurelia, who was used to the spectacle of unchecked testosterone, placed small, sensual kisses along his jaw, beginning at the cleft of his chin and slowly— very slowly— progressed to his thin, sensitive skin of his neck, finishing by running her teeth with the lightest of pressure along his ear lobe. Aurelia did not like being ignored.

Neither did Narcissa. "Where the fuck did my cake go?"

Lucius chuckled, and Narcissa's brow furrowed. He was not who she wanted to respond. "Well, considering Rabastan ate the majority of it and is…" Lucius gestured over to Rabastan, who had progressed to the sand, tossing it up into the air with a keen wonder in his eye. "I don't know if you'd have wanted it."

"Well." She huffed. "I suppose, there'll be no way of knowing now, is there?"

Lucius smiled, thoroughly enjoying the darkness flashing in her eyes. "Could I interest you in something else?"

He had settled in beside her, his hand nearly brushing her knee. For a moment, his words had no meaning, no sound, no purpose. Narcissa was too flustered by the flurry of feelings that fluttered within her- the thoughts that unfurled within her mind like a freshly released plume of smoke. She could not help but dream on the notion of his hand resting upon her thigh, sliding upwards— uninhibited by her precious propriety. Her skin rose at the idea, her eyes quivered to a close for just a moment. She pushed it away. He had said something— a question— what was it?

"Um… That depends on what you have," she answered, hoping beyond words that was the appropriate response.

Lucius leered at her reaction to his suddenly close proximity. Perhaps it would not be as difficult as he thought to achieve the dominance he preferred. "At this point I do believe the only item left is firewhiskey."

Narcissa willed her heart to calm down. She did not like his tone. It was aggressive, seductive— a challenge. She pouted and raised her chin. "It'll do," she responded coolly.

He grabbed the bottle from round the other side of the tree and handed it to her. She snatched it quickly from his hand, twisting off the top with swift, dainty fingers, and took a long, deep swig. She lowered it slowly from her lips, a look of displeasure in her eyes. Typical girl, Lucius thought, they can never handle the hard liquor.

Narcissa scanned the label. "This is truly a disappointing year. '42 had a much finer clarity."

Lucius released a sharp bark of a laugh. "It's only firewhiskey, Cissa."

She shook her head, "there's no excuse for low standards." However, it appeared that standards were a matter of ill consequence at the moment, for she lifted the mouth of the bottle to her lips once again and leaned her head back. The warmth of the alcohol smothered her thoughts, finally silencing her hormones. Or so she thought.

With a wicked gleam in her eye, she turned to Lucius and leaned in close— so close he could feel her breath on his skin.

"Lucius," she purred. "It's my birthday."

Brazen little thing. Was there any decipherable pattern to her behavior? "It is."

"It's tradition, is it not, to receive a kiss on your seventeenth birthday?" She leered, leaning in closer.

She was so close he could feel the smile on her lips. "Absolutely," he answered roughly.

She was impossibly close, the heat of her skin rolled forward from her body in tantalizing waves. "It's a pity then— _isn__'__t __it?_— that I haven't been much for tradition lately."

She rose swiftly, turning on her heels, and began to walk in the direction of the castle, yanking Aurelia out of Titus's lap with an unnatural grace.

Lucius glowered at her receding form until his attention was stolen up by the loud cackling of the three boys around him.

"She really fucked with you, mate!" Rabastan exclaimed, rolling around in the grass.

From the path to the castle, Aurelia and Narcissa could hear the cajoling boys around the trunk of the ancient elm tree. Narcissa smirked, exceedingly proud.

Aurelia shared her attitude. "Taught him to think to think twice before he screws with you."


	3. Chapter 3

Narcissa rose swiftly up the stairs of the astronomy tower— anxious— as if she were late for a pressing appointment. Within her deep blue eyes- the distance— the portal to the world only she knew threatened to erupt— it was acting out like a terrible child, throwing tantrums left and right in the small, delicate space between her mind and her skin— where Narcissa kept the cool veneer properly in place every moment of the day. Finally, she fought up the last few steps, losing her balance on the last, crashing to the weak rotting wood beneath her. The sounds of her fall thrashed out like thunder in the cavernous confines, but she did not listen. She writhed across the boards, splinters catching on her robes, wood creaking at the lightest of pressure placed upon them— the wind picked up, whipped at the canvas stretched across the wide, gaping chasms in the walls— they billowed briskly, roughly— furious.

Slowly, with shaking hands and quivering soul, she rose, gingerly shifting her weight progressively toward the middlemost point of the rapturous cave. The affliction of the afterworld shattered upon her shoulders and she raised her hands heavenward into the atmosphere— her wand pressed preciously between index and thumb. In this apex of past-present-future, forces of natures stilled and froze, magnifying the air surrounding the diminutive witch, raising strands of icy hair, trapping them in a halo of hellfire. Father Time beguiled the elements to his bidding, raising the wind to wretched strengths, racking up and catapulting the little witch into the cackling cold of the mineral which shaped this cavern.

"Eiiiiiihhhhaaaaaaaaaaa ," she shrieked at the sudden barrage of rain— the overwhelming gust of pain— yet Narcissa did not cease. She would see. For if the hours of the earth were to haunt her night and day, separating her from the commonplace activities of her peers, she would demand answers, enslave elements of her own, insist upon the honesty from the phantoms of her hauntings.

"Effrego vorago, patefacio ianua," she chanted, wand raised defiantly, eyelids barred down under lock and key. "Effrego vorago, patefacio ianua, effrego vorago, patefacio ianua, _effrego __vorago,__patefacio __ianua.__"_

Wind fought back at Father Time, for she loathed with every ounce of atmosphere within to be tamed— manipulated— weaponized. With a fearsome force that boar thunder in dry rain, Wind summoned the gossamer curtain for Narcissa, feeling the porcelain doll the spirit world had made their plaything since infancy deserved her loyalty.

Narcissa continued to chant, "Effrego vorago, patefacio ianua, effrego vorago, patefacio ianua." The whole of her body strained at the force rushing her veins— her skin paled to translucency, her lips blued, her heart surged against its cage, swelling twice over— transforming into a creature of its own thought. The curtain materialized within the center of the cavern, appearing as nothing more than a smear of Vaseline over the lense of her eye, billowing— dancing in the wind. She flicked her wand in one swift twist of the wrist and the air stilled— slowed to the speed of a tortoise in the snow.

Tentatively, Narcissa rose to her feet. Extending her left hand, wand still securely in her right, she pushed back the slithery, slimey silk of the curtain and peered within, surprised not to be sucked inside the black of the portal by now. But this desperate communication of the spirit world was not like the others. It did not want Narcissa— not her wiles, her wisdom. It rejected her, throwing her up against the outstretched canvas, pinning her into place like a great wild beast about to devour it's pray. It tortured her, flooded her with the wrenching cries of women, men, and children, all overwhelmed with despair. No hope was in their cries, only terror, only fear. With the sharp clap of thunder and sudden strike of lighting announcing his arrival, a figure emerged, his form floating toward her like ink splashed across the atmosphere. From this form a face revealed itself, skin white as snow, eyes red as the belly of hell, nostrils like slits— it conjured the image of a massive horrid snake on the surface of Narcissa's mind.

"Beware, my pet," it hissed in a chilling whisper, circling her, coiling around her neck, enjoying the sound of her withering breath. "Beware, beware, _beware_."

It was gone. Its absence so sudden it was violent. Releasing Narcissa without warning in its wake. Her form dropped with a crack, the sudden influx of piercing weight causing a rupture in the floorboard, and she continued to fall, cascading down story after story. She whelped, and wailed— terrified at this new vision, bombarded by pain with each level she crashed through, bone breaking board.

Finally, when there was no more wood to fall through, Narcissa's back collided with the cold unforgiving stone of the Astronomy Tower's foundation. Moving as little as possible, she summoned all her strength— gripping her wand tightly in her little palm she chanted spell after charm after spell. After endless moments of work, the blood that had rushed forward from her side had eased, the fissure of tissue in her calf was mended enough to walk on, and the suffocating pain in her back had calmed. She stood slowly, wincing at each movement. _No!__No__one__can__know._

Thus, once again she carefully gathered up all her pain— her fear— into a muted sphere and pushed it to the precipice of her deep blue eyes, drafting it into submission until it matched the secrets of its surrounding muted spheres, becoming another answer many around her would long to question.

* * *

><p>"Finally, finally, finally, my dear!" Aurelia cooed loudly with delight. She kissed her cousin on the cheek, so entirely full of happiness she could not contain herself. "I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"<p>

It was the morning of Aurelia's graduation, and she and Narcissa were enjoying her last breakfast in the Great Hall at the Slytherin table. Narcissa could not help but laugh at her cousin's silly behavior, sitting at the long wood table already in her graduation robes, raising her glass to every other seventh year in their house that came their way. Narcissa watched her with love, for at this moment Aurelia was pure joy.

She wrapped her arms loosely around Aurelia in a quick hug. "But Lili, what am I to do without you next year?"

"Cissa," Aurelia quieted at the sadness in Narcissa's usually guarded eyes. "It's not like you're going to run out of purebloods and cousins in Slytherin, our family's so large you're related to a quarter of your year." But this did not help Narcissa, for she did not like most people— even purebloods— and being related to them did not make them anymore interesting.

Aurelia, who had become very used to looking past the distance in Narcissa's eyes and seeing what she was really feeling, noticed that this did not help at all, and quickly changed tactics. "Besides," she leaned in conspiratorially, smirking all the way. "I do believe you'll be too distracted by the flirtations of a certain blond to be missing me for too long."

"_What,_" Narcissa raised an eyebrow in sarcastic confusion, "are you talking about?"

Aurelia smiled wickedly and gestured slyly toward Lucius, who was laughing and joking with Rabastan, Abrux, and Titus a little further down the table— the latter two also celebrating their end of final term. Narcissa followed Aurelia's gesture until her eyes rested upon Lucius.

"You can't be serious," she scoffed. "I thought you were disapproving of his attention toward me."

Aurelia laughed and took greedy gulps of orange juice. "I was. Until we had a little chat."

"Oh." Narcissa did her best to smother the interest in her voice. "And?"

Aurelia smirked, winked, and dropped her voice. "I do not betray those who have placed their confidence in me, Cissa."

Narcissa rolled her eyes, and dropped her voice to a barely audible decibel. "Bullshit." She leaned in toward her cousin. "You know you want to tell me, you wouldn't have mentioned it if you didn't."

Aurelia wriggled in her seat. It was true, she was quite anxious to tell her cousin. And Narcissa had such a demeanor that made it desperately hard for her cousin to hide a thing. Those eyes, so cold and blue and judging, that smile, her lips pursed like a kitten, her jaw so delicate. She was terrifyingly beautiful, and while Aurelia knew the girl world love her till her dying days, she could not help but want to ingratiate herself further with every secret she possessed.

Lucius looked away from his friends momentarily, for he could not help but check in on Narcissa periodically. Cheeky witch, from a distance it was clear she was playing her dear cousin like a fiddle— her smile encouraging and slightly flirtatious, her whole body language directed solely at Aurelia— for while Narcissa was a wonderful girl, she would not stop until she had gotten what she wanted. At this Lucius could empathize with Aurelia, could understand her weakening resolve, he had been in a similar position time and time again, and knew how difficult it was to turn down Narcissa— she was usually so outwardly cold, so far beyond reach, that when she allowed herself to be close to you, tricked you into believing she was just within your grasp, it was very difficult not to give her what she wanted. He wondered what could have intrigued Narcissa to manipulate her beloved cousin to such an extent. His stomach dropped. _Fuck._

Back within the realm of Narcissa's manipulation, Aurelia was gushing— releasing every detail of her conversation with Lucius— Narcissa appreciated her candor, but was simply extracting the necessary details. She sighed and began to pout. Apparently their discussion had involved Lucius's interest in courting her the following school year. But this was not news to Narcissa, for her father had informed her during her fourth year that he and Abraxus had already established plans for their son and daughter to begin courtship once she was of the legal age. She sighed and looked down at her left hand, more specifically her ring finger, admiring its naked form— the slender, snow white skin stretched thinly over delicate bone— she knew it would not remain this way for too much longer. Time was closing in on her, her opportunities to make her own decisions were coming to a close, soon— within the next year or two— there would be Maximia Malfoy's engagement ring on her hand, followed soon by a wedding ring. She would have a son, a perfect little blond son, then perhaps another, all while maintaining a large, empty household. Wash, rinse, repeat. This would be the end of Narcissa Black.

While Narcissa was selfishly lamenting her dismal path, wholly ignoring her doting cousin, she had missed out on an important fact. It had not been Abraxus's idea for Lucius to begin courting— frankly, he believed the boy could wait a few years, let him have time to go out into the world, do as many stupid and reckless things as was fit for a wealthy young man— then settle down. But Lucius could not wait— he did not want time— he wanted _her_— to at last be able to ward off the lusting, loving eyes that followed Narcissa nearly everywhere she went with complete justification. His ring would be on her finger, her name to end with his. Most importantly that distant look— all those questions so far away with her eyes— would be his. **He ****could ****not ****wait.**


	4. Chapter 4

_Summertime and the living is easy…_

The August heat hung high in the sky, watching the two remaining loyal Black sisters enviously from its perch above the heavens. Bellatrix and Narcissa were lying out under the sun, lounging about on the sand of the beaches that skirted the family property in the south of France, as they had done all summer. With the careful encouragement of sun rays, Bellatrix's skin had darkened to a sensuous shade of caramel, while Narcissa's had remained remarkably alabaster— not even a freckle— it was as if even the sun in the sky was too frightened of the anger that would ensue should any blemish appear.

A small house elf came walking carefully forward, carrying a large silver tray covered in macaroons, lady fingers, chocolates, croissants, and a crystal pitcher gleaming with the blood orange luster of a Bloody Mary. The little elf set it down on the petite table between the two girls and snapped away into the house without saying a word. Narcissa turned her head slowly— lazily— laboriously— and opened a single eye to survey the splendor before her. She extended a long, elegant hand and plucked a strawberry macaroon from the pile.

"Bella," she hummed, the sun soaking her words. "It's a little early to be ordering alcohol, isn't it?"

"Nonsense." Bellatrix's voice was low and throaty, recalling the image of a woman who knew how to smoke a cigar and beat you at poker. "It's never too early for a visit with Mary!"

As she poured herself a glass, she watched Narcissa sample each delectable desert the sparkling silver tray had to offer, admiring her sister's freedom, for most pureblood women were obsessively concerned with their figure, and refused to even glance in the direction of a patisserie. Narcissa, however, was of a different school of thought— she believed that a woman born of wealth and class should never refrain from the privileges her birth afforded her— rather, simple self-control was in order. For moderation could allow a woman to sample the world without consequence.

"Did you make it a custom to begin drinking at 11:30 every morning while on tour, or is this a new habit?" Narcissa asked, the arrogance of her kind shining through in full form.

Upon her graduation from Hogwarts, Bellatrix had chosen the only alternative to a subsequent marriage available to a young pureblooded woman: take a grand tour of Europe under the careful eye of an elderly relative— often a spinster aunt who had not understood in her time that by giving up the opportunity to marry immediately, you may very well be giving marriage up for good. The typical duration for such a trip was traditionally no longer than a year, but Bellatrix was more than clever— she was manipulative, conniving if you were being kind— and had managed to squeeze another two and a half out of it, only just returning last December.

Bellatrix laughed deeply. "No," she raised her sunglasses, sitting up to look at Narcissa, her eyes were of the same shape and attitude of her sister's, but rather than the ice blue the blond maintained, Bellatrix's eyes were darker— deviated by a deep green— lowering the color of her eyes to an aquamarine.

She smirked. Rethinking her answer, "Well, not while we were on the coast anyway— Aunt Violetta fell off one too many yachts to make that mistake more than once." Bellatrix's eyes widened and narrowed as she spoke, causing any listener to believe she was sharing a great secret with you and _only_ you.

Narcissa knew this trait well— loved it, admired it— even going so far as to mimic it from time to time— to similar, but much less powerful effect— for no matter the lengths she went to, it was always so much more enthralling to see such behavior on a dangerous woman.

The blond Black opened her eyes, draping her right hand over her forehead to block out the sun. She looked at her sister— really and truly looked at her— noticing the greedy gulps she took of her drink, the voracious bites of food. There was no moderation present— no boundaries on the pleasures of life— for Bellatrix's nature was so aggressive, so demanding, her body was forced to run faster than the whims of God on the day of a plague, causing her food to be burned away thrice over before she had time to take the next bite. As a result, where the sinuous forms of womanhood had staken their claim on Narcissa, Bellatrix entertained a more vigorous figure. When she drank, Narcissa noticed the way in which her skin stretched over her cheek bones, how provocatively angular she was— how much more like a wild animal— appearing closer in relations the great cats of Africa, then to Narcissa— lean and ready to pounce.

Bellatrix took a break from her third Bloody Marry to think on how quietly Narcissa had spent her summer. As her older sister, she could in no way allow such passivity now that she was of age— if only Narcissa knew in full the hell she had wreaked once she turned of age and lost the trace— it was glorious!— but then again, she could not imagine her sister burning down a building simply because no one could catch her. Perhaps they should begin with a tamer activity.

She plucked an ice cube from the little crystalline bucket on the tray and tossed it at Narcissa, shocking the girl whose senses had been dulled by the heat.

"Bitch," Narcissa spat, sitting up quickly. "What was that for?"

Bellatrix laughed at her sister's shock. "Don't you find this tedious? Wouldn't you prefer to do something else?" Her eyes widened and she threw her hands up in the air as an idea occurred to her. "I know— let's go into town!"

Narcissa wrinkled her nose as she stood, collecting her towel, and brushed a few grains of sand from her legs. "It's crawling with muggles, whatever would cause you to be interested in _town_?" She uttered the final word as if it were a venereal disease her sister had expressed interest in catching.

Bellatrix raised her eyebrows in disbelief, "have you truly spent this entire holiday cooped up in the Manor? There are several wizarding establishments in town!"

Narcissa raised her chin arrogantly— defensively, "I have not been cooped up! Just a few days ago I went sailing with Aurelia and the boys—"

"That's still on the property! Merlin, you really just accepted what Mum told you was appropriate, didn't you?" Bellatrix said incredulously. She was legitimately shocked, for when she was Narcissa's age the boundaries were considerably looser, and she had manipulated them to her delight.

But it appeared in the wake of Andromeda's disloyalty, Druella Black had become exceedingly paranoid about the behavior of her last child, fearing that if she too spent days in town, Narcissa would disappoint her to similarly disastrous degrees. Thus, she had placed harsh restrictions on where the girl could go, and whom she was allowed to spend time with— allowing only pureblood friends and pureblood places. As Narcissa usually preferred to spend her time by herself— bewitching fallen rose petals to dance and sing on the winds of the sea— she paid no mind to these harsh restrictions, hardly noticing a distinction at all.

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "It is of little consequence… Now, do you want to go into town or not?"

A wide smirk spread quickly across Bellatrix's face, and she jumped to her feet, not bothering to grab any of her items in the sand.

* * *

><p>Click. Clack. Crack. Snap. Click. Clack.<p>

Bellatrix led Narcissa down a small alley, the hay, rubble, and dirt over cobblestone reacted beneath her heels as she followed apprehensively, feeling that they could certainly find an establishment that was easier to get to.

"Bella, must we come _here_?" she questioned, preferring to sit at one of the sidewalk cafes sipping tea and watching the sail boats come into the harbor.

Bellatrix stopped abruptly, and Narcissa nearly tripped over her, as she had not been paying attention to their direction. They had arrived in front of a shabby bar— the exterior consisted of deep mahogany pieces that had previously been a part of the many ships that frequented the town. Narcissa wrinkled her nose. **No.** _Absolutely __not._

But it appeared she didn't have a choice, as Bellatrix, ignoring her sister's protests, had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her inside. It took several moments for Narcissa's eyes to adjust— not for lack of light—- for the rays of the sun raced into the bar, separated into stripes by the tilted blinds— rather, because of the heavy plumes of smoke that clouded every available interior space. She turned to her sister to complain, but noticed she was no longer by her side.

"Bella, you're being a bitch." Narcissa huffed, then muttered, "where the fuck are you?"

Suddenly Bellatrix appeared out of the smoke, her form hazy at the edges, as if Narcissa was watching a blurry photograph, instead of her sister. "There you are! Come on over here!"

Narcissa glowered at the back of Bellatrix's head, intending to set each and every curl on fire as soon as she would remain still long enough. As they approached the bar, it became abundantly clear why Bellatrix had wanted to come. Two long, lithe figures leaned against the bar, darkly powerful in physical build, holding themselves upright with an arrogance Narcissa found all too familiar— she recognized one of the men, but the other was a mystery to her. Though, if she was to be entirely honest with herself, one she was definitely interested in solving. Thus, the beautiful blonde held herself a little straighter, walked a little more gently, allowing the smooth fabric of her summer robes to drape luxuriously over her form.

The man on the right stepped forward, and with the murmur of her name, her sister disappeared within Rodolphus Lestrange's arms. Narcissa was surprised— her sister was not one for affection— it was clear most of Bellatrix's relations were for either sex or power (sometimes both). Thus, when Bellatrix did not pull away immediately, rather planting a kiss on the hollow where his jaw met the thin skin of his neck, Narcissa was truly floored. She opened her mouth to comment, but there was no time, for Bellatrix had grabbed the beer he'd handed her and was currently guiding him in the direction of a murky corner— her intentions less then subtle.

As she stood, at a loss for words— actions— thoughts— Narcissa slowly became aware of the man to her left, and the low, throaty chuckle that was currently reverberating from him. She looked up, for he was still standing and was of a quite impressive height, and noticed his startling blue eyes— not unlike her own. This was rather fortuitous for the man, as Narcissa loved to find her favorite features in others— it made them all the easier to tolerate.

"Well, that was rather rude," he said with the confidence of a man who had long known how to achieve every whim without effort. "Would you like to sit and have a drink?"

Narcissa surveyed the stranger, from the surge of power the movement of each muscle caused, to the strong jaw, messy dark blond hair. She smiled coyly, "Yes, thank you." She moved to sit on the bar stool, but he stopped her— directing her towards a table near a window with his hand on the small of her back.

"Pardon my forward behavior, Ms. Black," he said, his voice low, leaning down slightly in order to afford the best hearing. Narcissa was so close to him she could feel the hum of his voice reverberate throughout his torso. "But it would be improper for you to sit at the bar."

She relaxed into his touch, enjoying his respect of the rules so many of her peers were casting aside like the withering stub of a cigarette. He withdrew her chair, and she sat, sinking gracefully into her place. As he smoothly took his seat, she tried to place him, for he seemed vaguely familiar. He could not be from her usual circles, as he was likely in his early thirties, but his ease with her ruled out any distant relation.

He smiled at her calmly, and made a gesture as if to ask if something was wrong. Narcissa smiled, turning her head slightly, and batted her lashes. "Please pardon my behavior, I'm so sorry— I… I'm just having the most difficult time recalling how we've been previously acquainted."

He laughed, his eyes lighting with the mirth only a beautiful young woman can cause. "No need to apologize, Ms. Black, we do have, oh… I'd venture to guess nearly a thirteen year age difference. The last time we met I do believe you had just begun Hogwarts, and now it appears that you're nearly done."

Narcissa's eyes began to light with recognition like the rising of the English sun— slowly, but brightly. Her brows furrowed slightly, "…Romulus?" Vague memories of the eldest Lestrange brother's story flicked like fading dreams across her mind, she could just barely recall a few meager details— his mother's death by dragon pox when he was a young boy, his father's eventual remarriage, his new brothers…

Romulus smiled, lifting her hand gently from the table in order to brush his lips ever so softly over her knuckles. Heat rose from the very center of Narcissa to the surface of her skin with the speed of a vengeful lightning bolt. He held her hand a little longer, and she could not stop the rate of her heart from increasing.

"It _is_ good to see you again, Ms. Black," Romulus purred. "It has been too long." He released her hand, which she could not help but pull back slightly, for fear if she did not, she would snake it around his neck and draw him close, too close… As her mind wandered to what she might do if _they_ were the couple in the murky corner, he had raised a hand in the direction of the bar, ordering for them wordlessly. His sleeve slid upwards as he did, and she noticed the tattoo on his lower arm. A peculiar image— a snake intertwined with a skull of an angry disposition— stretched from elbow to wrist. It was very dark in nature, but the more Narcissa thought, the more she liked the idea of a pureblood man with a devious tattoo— it was thrilling— for something she had always understood to be right and proper to have a streak of danger.

He noticed her analyzing it, and laid his arm on the table before her. He smiled, "do you like it?"

"Yes," she spoke quietly as she traced her index finger over the curving lines of the snake, gently— and unknowingly— provoking a reaction out of the sensitive skin. "What does it mean?"

Romulus laughed quietly. "What makes you think it has a meaning?"

She looked up at him briefly, matching his smile. "Surely a tattoo of this nature is not acquired on a whim, it must have a meaning."

"Well if it must have a meaning…" He separated from her slightly as a grumpy old witch placed their drinks on the table, leaning in closer to her once the witch left. "Can you keep a secret?"

His voice was low, almost a growl, and Narcissa could not resist it, leaning in closer instinctively, her perfume flooding his senses. "Absolutely."

Truth be told, he likely would have told her even if she'd said no. At this moment, it was impossible for him to deny her a thing— she was intoxicating— her scent— the elusive spark in her eyes— the length of her legs— the way her lips pouted naturally, like a kitten's. "It is the emblem of a society, we are called the Knights of Walpurgis, and shall we need to be gathered, all our leader need do is place his finger to his, and all ours react."

"What a clever piece of magic," she cooed, still running her finger over it, entranced. She did not inquire after the meaning of his society, growing up surrounded by their secrecy, her father belonging to a few himself. It was pureblood tradition. For if knowledge was discussed in the open, what would keep the mudbloods from gaining it?

Romulus liked her simple acceptance— her lack of silly questions— it was an endearing quality in a woman— especially one so young.

Narcissa raised her head, and ceased teasing the sensitive skin of his forearm. "Now, what is it that you've ordered for me?"

"Try it," he said simply, handing it to her.

She took the chilled tumbler from his hand, eyeing the ice cubes floating in the milky white liquid— entirely apprehensive— before deciding she would drink it, no matter its contents— she wanted to be worldly in his eyes: unafraid.

As she took in the drink greedily, Romulus admired the freedom of her age— the lack of caution even in a woman raised so carefully— for when you were seventeen with the world at your feet, it was effortless to believe you were invincible.

"Do you like it?" he asked when she set it down, taking a drink from his.

She nodded with a smile. "Yes, it's sweeter than what I'm used to."

Romulus could not help but laugh at this, remembering how the only alcohol easily accessible when you're seventeen is firewhiskey— a thoroughly bitter drink.

She shifted her weight, crossing and uncrossing her legs— accidentally brushing hers against his. Usually, she would have recoiled immediately, and apologized for her lack of boundary. But now, when faced with the decision to act her usual self, or rise to the challenge of being a woman, she let them rest against him, and ran her fingers through her hair— bringing attention to the lustrous length of it, and the naked flesh of her neck once she allowed it all to fall on one shoulder.

He leaned in closer, eliminating the greater space between them. Narcissa could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the green, heady scent that radiated from skin, see the glint of stubble on his chin.

"Can I trust you with another secret?" he whispered, his voice low and wanting.

Narcissa nodded, "Of course."

"I do like your necklace," his breath tickled her skin. "Very much."

She giggled lightly, her finger coming up to play with the little silver charm— the Black family crest— that dangled from a delicate chain, resting against her collar bone. She looked up, her eyes catching his. "I don't see any reason for that to be a secret."

"It is a secret," his eyes trailed longingly from hers to the gentle curve of her neck, "because I only like where it rests on you. And it is not proper for me to look at a girl in that manner."

Narcissa dropped the charm, allowing her finger to trail lightly over the area of his desire, lazily trailing it back up to her beautiful hair. "I am not a girl."

"No?" He raised his eyebrows in mock apprehension— he was teasing her, and she knew it.

She leaned in closer still, her lips— the warmth of her breath— lightly grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. She felt his muscles stiffen, his blood raise beneath the thin skin as her lips worked against it. He softened, relaxing, enjoying her touch, allowing a gust of breath to escape his lips— she smiled against him— and bit him lightly— a gentle surprise. "No."


	5. Chapter 5

"Aren't you ever lonely?" Lucius's voice permeated her thoughts of idle party charms and tricks.

"Hmmmmm?" she responded lazily, glancing at him over her should as she leaned on the banister of the balcony.

Curious. Her behavior was always so curious. She raised her eyes lethargically, as if to lift each lash was a chore he was lucky she was willing to commit to. Once she recognized the man- boy- man behind her, her lips spread slowly into a smile. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Whenever we're at these silly parties you're always at the edge of them. Why?" He leaned next to her, though it was difficult for her to determine if the diminishing space between them was his subtle attempt to hit on her, or a result of her bourbon induced blurry vision.

"Better to be at the edge of a party than at the center of it, don't you think?" She looked out at the event, noticing each group- or gender, really- that collected in their respective areas.

Their parents, grandparents, great aunts and uncles- and any other elderly aristocracy that was loosely related to them- slowly mingled around the library and grand sitting room. The men existed amongst large clouds of cigar smoke that flowed from the great oak room like silky breath released from a great snake; the women inhabited a space very much like themselves: stately, dressed in light, elegant shades of gold, green, and aquamarine, and dripping with the connotations of champagne- their liquor of choice, no less. From her vantage point high atop the action, Narcissa could spy her Great Aunt Violetta extending an ancient hand and plucking a glass as large as a finger bowl from the circulating trays.

Lucius emitted a guttural sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "I love it when your family throws the parties-"

"Why?" Narcissa cut him off abruptly and jostled his shoulder slightly as she freed first her right, then her left foot from her insanely high heels. "Because ours is the finest summer Manor in Southern France?" she boasted smoothly.

Lucius's lips curled upward into an amused smirk, "hardly." As he tilted his head in her direction, he noticed the dramatic height difference now that she wasn't up on those stilts she was so fond of. "Wow, you're really quite small aren't you?" He laughed as the words rolled free from his mouth. "All this time I always thought you were taller than the rest of the girls, but I suppose you really just have a fondness for torturing yourself."

At the base of Narcissa's spine a small creature- who proudly went by the name Exasperation- emerged, giddily climbing each vertebra toward her patience that dwelled peacefully in her mind. Lucius's words sunk deeper and deeper into her thoughts- he always had a knack, that Malfoy prick, of getting under her skin. But this game had gone on for so long, she was well practiced in hiding her irritation- only the small eleven that appeared between her eyebrows when her forehead creased betrayed her cool. In his slightly inebriated state, Lucius had bent down and picked up one of her shoes and was now showing her what he believed to be the most ridiculous heel man or God had ever created- "I mean, really? What is the point of this-" What a silly boy, Narcissa thought as she watched her shoe fall two stories from his hand into the Waterford crystal bowl filled with deep green punch. _Splash!_

Lucius laughed arrogantly as several house elves scurried to clean up the beads of green liquid that were currently threatening to attach themselves to the light, frothy fabrics of the elder generation's fine summer robes.

"God, you're daft," she spat at him. His eyes, which were previously filled with drunken glee, sobered quickly.

He leaned in towards Narcissa, clearly angered, his lips tightening, jaw clenching. She retreated a pace away, not liking his sudden change in tone, but he followed her- followed her until she was backed up against the cold, curved black marble of the alcove wall. She closed her eyes, far too tipsy to handle his wounded, arrogant pride. With her eyes closed she began to ignore the anger that was currently rolling off his body- _pureblood men are always so picky about respect, _she whined inwardly- and began to pick up on more pleasant aspects about this increasingly close proximity. Like the wonderful way the scotch he had been drinking earlier had mixed with his cologne to create a woody, musky scent that reminded her of that one afternoon she had allowed herself to get lost in the English woods behind her home. Or how his breath had just begun to tickle her neck- it was soft, and warm, and comforting- so nice, in fact, that she had nearly forgotten why she was up against a wall, her breath increasing rapidly, with a rather large man hovering over her.

"I think I know why you wear those ridiculous shoes," he stated, his mouth hovering just above the shell of her ear. "I think it's because you prefer to be above everyone, in every way…" Narcissa opened her eyes. His tone was not threatening, nor angry, as she had expected, but intrigued. "As you should."

A whisper, a "what?" escaped her lips before she could catch it- for a pureblood woman does not respond to such talk, to behavior like this, she lives above it. Thus Narcissa was focused on correcting herself, and not on Lucius's whispered words ("I like it"), or the path of his right hand as it descended from its resting place on the wall above her head to her hair… her collarbone… the curve of her exposed shoulder… down her back… towards her- "Lucius!" she hissed, suddenly very aware of both his impropriety and the chills that had escaped her control, spreading out over her body like the wanting words of a lover.

Her sudden attention reminded him of his place, and he backed away from her, his composure returning as his shoulders squared and chest rose toward the heavens. She too stood straighter, and righted the fallen dress strap that had allowed him to explore so much further beyond her boundaries. He extended his left arm, crooked and ready to escort her downstairs- the closest, Narcissa understood, a man of his class would come to apologizing for his behavior.

"I need some more champagne," Narcissa stated emphatically under her breath.

Lucius did not hear her, or perhaps did not care too. It troubled him, the affect she had on him. Were it any other girl, he would have continued, for he felt the affect_ he_ had on_ her_- heard her breath quicken, felt her skin grow warmer, her muscles stiffen and relax under his touch. After not only months but years, he had finally been close to her. Yet he stopped. At the slightest word. Not only did he stop, he apologized, and escorted her downstairs as if they were arranged-

"_What,_" Bellatrix interrupted as she drunkenly leaped up the stairs towards Narcissa. "Are you doing? Every pureblood adult in England is in this house and completely sloshed. There is no need for all this silly property." Her words- while commanding, and _delightfully_ correct- where thoroughly slurred, and as she spoke she waved her arms about in the air like a lame bird attempting to take flight.

Narcissa laughed and disengaged her arm from Lucius's. "I do hope you mean propriety, Bella."

"_That_, dear Cissa is _exactly_ what I said," Bellatrix proclaimed with an enthusiasm that could only have been produced by a great deal of firewhiskey and bewitching chocolates. "Don't know _what_ you're talking about."

She grabbed Narcissa's hand and began to pull her further down the stairs, past the grand rooms that housed their elders, toward the large, open wrought iron and glass doors which separated the indoor pool from the shore that waited just beyond. As they grew closer to the room, Narcissa could feel the audible change between the older generation- who had ridden themselves of such habits with the end of their youth, as was expected in their society- and the younger, who were reveling in the years they had left of accepted bad behavior. She could hear the bass pumping loudly, a few girls squealing with delight as the boys did a few tricks to impress them, smell the mix of the sea breeze and wizard's hash in the air- this was how the purebloods dealt with the stifling rules of their lives. And Narcissa was excited.

"Bella!" The large, thoroughly toned form of Rodolphus Lestrange emerged from the pool and engulfed her sister in his arms in one swift movement, covering the raven-haired Black sister in water. While her sister was significantly taller than Narcissa, this was nothing in comparison to Rodolphus's staggering height. Thus, when he picked her up and jumped into the water with her, it cost him no effort at all, and appeared to be the most graceful of motions.

"You're such a prick," Bellatrix shrieked and smacked him once they resurfaced, but the wide leer on her face betrayed the edge in her voice. "Let me go, you pain in the arse!" she continued. But Rodolphus knew her game, and with a wolfish grin, he wrapped his arms around her tighter, she responded by wrapping her legs tightly around his waist.

Narcissa couldn't take this anymore. "Christ," she breathed, and walked over to Aurelia, who was dancing happily on the shore, near the large fire that had been built. As Narcissa neared the girl, she noticed a large champagne bottle gripped in her hand, and the way her dark blonde hair flitted about in the air as she shook her head to the music. God, what a family she had.

"_Darling_," Aurelia called happily, and threw her arms around Narcissa's neck, the champagne bottle bumping up against her shoulder bone a little painfully. "Look, lovely, look!" The girl waved her left hand in the air, and Narcissa noticed a very specific kind of sparkle deriving from her ring finger.

"It's beautiful," Narcissa cooed happily, but was also somewhat surprised. It was a bit early for her to be arranged already, she had only just graduated Hogwarts a few months ago, after all. She gave her cousin an affectionate kiss on the cheek. "How exciting!"

"Isn't it?" There was some trepidation in her cousin's voice, which she clearly tried to smother with another large gulp of champagne. "Father just finished the talks with Trajan Burke this morning, and Titus came over this afternoon to officially propose-" As Aurelia drunkenly rambled on, Narcissa grabbed the large, green bottle and took a swig, noticing Lucius watching her from the mouth of the large glass patio. It unnerved her, the way he watched, the feelings he could elicit from her, his power over her. Amongst other boys she did not feel the grasp of the pureblood expectations, she could be young, and ignore how soon marriage was expected of her. But with Lucius, she could not hide, she could not avoid the inclination she felt to shy away from this lavish partying, to retreat to her room with her books and her charms. Around Lucius she felt she was on the brink of something larger, something more important than continuing the blood line.

Aurelia noticed Narcissa was no longer paying attention to her happy slurs, and followed her cousin's gaze the long, lithe figure of the leaning Lucius Malfoy. "He fancies you, we all can tell."

Narcissa laughed: a deep, throaty drunken laugh. Aware he had Narcissa's attention, Lucius had taken hold of Artemisia Rosier, and was currently bewitching her with his pretty words and suggestive smile. The girl happily leaned against the glass of the large door, allowing Lucius to leer over her.

Narcissa scoffed sardonically. "Yes, he makes it so obvious."

Aurelia rolled her eyes and snorted. "What an asshole. But don't be silly, Cissa, he does it all for you."

"I'm sure," Narcissa spat, as she watched Lucius's hand slip up Artemisia's shirt. She tore her eyes away, knowing that this whole show he was putting on was nothing more than him flexing his ego. She turned her attention to her cousin, who was chugging back the remaining contents of the champagne bottle as she lowered her self clumsily to lie in the sand. Narcissa caught her and lowered her more gently, sitting beside her. Aurelia curled up toward her, leaning her head in her lap.

"Cissy," Aurelia murmured. "I'm nervous."

"I know, honey, I know," Narcissa did her best to reassure her, although she admittedly had no experience with any of this. "But we've been trained to know how to run a household since we could first properly hold a tea cup, and your mother will help you during the first year-"

Aurelia snorted, "Cissa I couldn't give less of a shit about that- oi! Oi- Rabastian! Throw those over here."

From the other side of the fire, the younger Lestrange brother disengaged from a small group who had been creating their own source of smoke and tossed a small drawstring bag at the girls.

"Are they good?" Aurelia questioned, opening the bag and pulling out a little chocolate.

Rabastian grinned rakishly. "Oh yeah," he released a stream of smoke from his mouth. "They're incredible."

His answer was good enough for the two girls, as each popped a chocolate into their mouths and quickly felt the effects. Narcissa remembered the first time she had tried bewitching chocolates: she was a small and shy third year, Bellatrix had described them to be akin to the chocolates with fruit in the center, but instead of fruit there were mushrooms. They would make you happy, she had told the little Narcissa.

"Narcissa!" Aurelia shrieked with delight, tackling her cousin to the sand, and crawling on top of her, the tips of her dark blond hair tickling Narcissa's face. Narcissa pushed the girl off of her, not liking the way the pressure mixed with the effect of the chocolates.

"Narcissa! I have to tell you why I'm nervous about getting married!" Aurelia persisted, giggling as Narcissa took her hand and held it to try to soothe the silly girl. She enjoyed looking at the fire, the way it changed colors in her eyes, how the sparks sang to her as they crackled in the air.

"Why are you nervous, my dear girl?" Narcissa asked in a low voice, soothing her cousin with the low hum of her words.

"What if I'm not good at it?" Aurelia asked sincerely, her eyebrows drawing closer together.

"At what?" Narcissa was confused.

"At _it_, Cissy! At having sex! What if it hurts? What if I'm boring? What if _he's_ boring? What if he cheats on me?"

Narcissa wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't worry about that last bit, even taking a mistress is highly frowned upon. He mine as well declare himself a half blood if he were to do a thing like that."

Aurelia released a sigh of partial relief. "But what about the other things?" She turned to look at Narcissa. "Do you know what it's like?"

"No, honey," Narcissa replied quietly. "I've never tried it."

Some girls within the pureblood families- save for Bella, who fashioned herself an existentialist, but had only been in any way existential with Rodolphus- allowed themselves to be swayed by the boys' lovely little words and obviously empty promises. Others, usually those from the older- and therefore purer- pureblood families, had higher standards, and chose to follow the traditional standard of waiting a little longer. After all, there were other ways of arriving to the same result without forsaking a girl's honor.

"Oh, good," Aurelia stated, relieved to know she wasn't the only one who still stood by these standards.

Narcissa stole the drawstring bag away from her cousin and popped, not one, but three bewitching chocolates into her mouth. As happy as she was for Aurelia, she did not like discussing marriage with a girl who was merely a year older than her, for it reminded her how close she herself could possibly be to it. And as she had observed, there was hardly any legitimate love in it- at best it was a close friendship that produced beautiful children. She knew it was her future, but she preferred not to think about how near the rest of her life was.

In Narcissa's eyes, the stars in the sky began to dance, waltzing with the sparks that escaped from the blue- no green- no purple- fire. She laughed loudly with delight, reaching out her fingers to shake hands with the constellations.

"Blimey, Black!" Rabastian crowed, watching as the mushrooms affected the beautiful blond. She had stood and begun to dance with the stars as they took full form. Her movements were serene, blissful as she danced around the flame, Aurelia loudly and drunkenly encouraging her. He noticed that as she had looked back towards the pool, she had stiffened, and Rabastian saw why- Lucius was clearly taunting her. She turned on her heels, her sleek, white-blond hair swinging dangerously near the fire.

"Rabastian," Narcissa purred. "Come dance with me." She tugged at his arms, encouraging him upwards, and he quickly obliged, understanding through the both his fogged judgment and the cloud of wizard's hash that hung in the air he was entering dangerous territory- for Lucius had already made it clear back in their third year that if any boy went near Narcissa he would beat them to a pulp- a promise he had no trouble keeping, bruising and beating every previous potential suitor the girl had. But at this moment, he did not care. Narcissa was swaying her hips according to the upbeat momentum of the music that drifted from the house, and it was mesmerizing- he would take the black eye from Lucius later. He joined her, drawing her closer to him until there was no space between them. He matched the rhythm of her movements, enjoying every moment of her sliding skillfully against him, and allowing his ego to swell as he momentarily asserted his power over Lucius. It had yet to occur to him, of course, that Narcissa was doing the same thing.

Bellatrix spied her baby sister from the crook of the veranda, and mixed feelings grew in her stomach. She was proud of Cissy for finally provoking the boundaries of pureblood society- usually the youngest Black sister preferred to air on the primer side of the line- and for the way she had angered Lucius, who was visibly disturbed by her blatant affection for Rabastian. However, she was also disgusted- this boy was dancing vulgarly up against her _baby sister_- practically violating her!

"_What_ is your brother _doing_ to _my_ baby sister?" Bellatrix shrieked at Rodolphus. Rodolphus's hands hesitated for a moment- just long enough for him to look out at his brother and guffaw loudly- proudly.

"Enjoying himself, I'm sure," he stated, and continued his way up Bella's skirt. Bellatrix giggled into the crook of his neck and let go of her worry, deciding to be proud, like Rodolphus.

Back at the fire, Aurelia's hand shot out quickly and grabbed Narcissa's ankle, causing the girl, and the boy who was devoutly attached to her, to fall. The two girls shrieked with delight, surprised at the sudden fall. Rabastian preferred to be dancing, but did not protest, as Cissa had yet to move from the snug position in his lap in which she had fallen into.

"Where, my dear," Aurelia giggled as she spoke, "are your _lovely_ heels? I don't believe I've seen you without them since you learned how to walk!"

"Lucius took them, and then dropped one in the punch bowl!" Narcissa stated loudly, grabbing the bottle of firewhiskey that had emerged from the small cluster to which Rabastian had previously belonged and took a long swig.

"What an arse!" Aurelia declared.

Narcissa nodded, but as she locked eyes with Lucius across the sand, it was not his unceremonious treatment of her favorite stilettos that she recalled, but the way her heart sped, her stomach flipped when she had been so close to him. And how a small part of her wished it was _his_ lap she was currently resting in.


	6. Chapter 6

"Umph," Narcissa grumbled and pouted to herself as the infernal light of the sun snuck sneakily into the space between the mouth of her eyelids. She turned over in her bed and yanked the covers up over her head. "Critter, it is far too early for this."

"Sorry, Little Mistress, it's big Mistress's orders," the diminutive creature spoke quietly, her full attention glued to drawing Narcissa a bath, terrified of the witch who as a child had charmed her to fly about uncontrollably, requiring her to stay exactly where Narcissa had ordered her, causing Critter to be entirely powerless to the whims of the child.

Narcissa had recoiled up within her bed—beneath the many layers of pillows, silk sheets, and blankets—like the rattlesnake frightened beyond fear of a fatal blow to his beloved tail.

"Nooooooooooooooooo. Mmmgrgmrgm," she whined to herself, rolling, wrapping herself further up within the smothering darkness of the slithery fabric. "I wi_ll_ not wa_k_e."

Critter was profoundly eager to leave, ignoring the girl, she simply stated, "Your toilette is ready, misses," and popped away.

"Ack!" Narcissa howled shrilly. She truly _loathed_ the racket of elven travel. _Filthy creature could've opened my balcony_, she thought, _she knows how I prefer to be awakened by the sea_-

"Crap." It had only just then occurred to Narcissa that she was no longer in her jewel box bedroom in the South of France with her favorite view of the sea. They had returned to England deep into the previous night; so exhausted was Narcissa from her holiday that she had apparated directly into her room, removed her robes—leaving them in a pile on the floor at her door for the house elves—and changed into her nightgown with her wand—her only legitimate movements of the night being the waving of her wrist and shuffling of her feet before her weight gave way onto her bed.

"Urrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmgggggh," she fussed, allowing her left eye to emerge like a castaway angel from the belly of hell, then her right in the same attitude. Soon she permitted the rest of her form to follow, unwrapping from her cocoon in the fashion of a dragonfly at the finale of its cycle. She crawled to the side of her large, fluffy bed and swung her legs over the side, her feet wincing once they met the chilling temperature of the marble floor.

Narcissa stood reluctantly, her long legs wobbling slightly in their lethargy. As she walked to the adjoining bathroom, she reached her fingertips up to her shoulders, brushing away the thin straps of her negligée, allowing it to slip down her form and land without a sound on the floor—leaving it once again for those whose duty it was to pick up after her.

She crossed her bathroom quickly, longing for the relaxing heat that rose from her claw foot tub. It was so inviting—the steam curling into plumes of heat in such a similar attitude to the smoke of the bar where she'd had her brief encounter with Romulus that she could not suppress a hum of satisfaction as she lowered into the water. But she did not want to think of Romulus, or Lucius, or even Rabastan—thus she did not stop when the water had met her shoulders, she continued deeper, inhaling sharply and sealing her eyes to a close just as the crown of her head was engulfed by the mass of heat surrounding her.

She could not fathom why this strange string of admirers had taken shape—she did not even _like_ people, let alone men, and could not see any reason for them to have an interest in her. Narcissa understood her eventual union with a man would occur not too long from now, but she hadn't even graduated yet—what was the point of all this nonsense?

She released a bubble of air, her heart increasing its pace at the sudden decrease in fuel—this flutter, the heat of the water, the relaxation of her muscles conjured memories of her summer encounters with Romulus and Lucius, and immediately she felt foolish. For it only just occurred to her why men act as they do, why girls on the cusp of becoming a woman believed their empty promises, and alliances were made so quickly once they came of age in pureblood families.

A small chirp of a laugh escaped her lips, releasing a trickle of air that floated to the surface at a lazy speed. Such a small notion—our inability to fight the wanting which compels us—such a silly thing. It had escaped her in full until this moment—perhaps due to her loathing for the general populace, perhaps because she was the one little princess who'd listened to mummy when she was told not to leave her tower—but in a rush it made sense, how far her kind had gone to bring order to such wantings—smothering them into the smallest, farthest reaches of their mind once married. And she had followed blindly, unknowingly, playing naively with this game simply to exert a power she desperately longed for.

Through the layers of understanding, vexation, ignorance, water, porcelain, and air, Narcissa could hear the authority of heels meeting marble, and the sweet hum of a familiar voice. She opened her eyes, her vision blurred by Adam's ale, yet clear enough that she could admire the peculiar beauty of her hair floating like a mermaid's laugh at the surface above her. She swayed from side to side, enjoying the manner in which it followed, until she heard the quiver of sound break through her barriers once again. She parted her hair like a gossamer curtain, and immediately burst to the surface at the sight of the sound's source.

"Mumma," she cooed with delight, her hand gripping the side of the tub and her chin resting upon it. She loved her mother more than anyone else, as she was the one person Narcissa did not have to force herself to endure the occasional or constant character flaws.

Druella Rosier Black was a beautiful woman, the source of the stark difference in Narcissa's coloring from her sisters, who took after her father's side. She was perched delicately against the gilded cathedra, her long legs—tanned by the summer spent on the coast—crossed delicately in front of her, her golden blond hair piled gracefully upon her head, held together by Narcissa's favorite hairpins—a cacophony of black pearls and opals, set within a diamond so deep and rare it was blue—it matched her eyes. Narcissa delighted in her mother's eyes, for she had received exact copies of them within her own lovely face.

"Darling, you've been in there for so long I had begun to worry you'd transformed into a fish," Druella's voice rang through the air like the song of God's favorite angel.

Narcissa giggled, "I couldn't help it, Mumma, I miss waking to the sea."

"Oh, of course, you do, love," her mother cupped the side of Narcissa face adoringly. "But we must acquire your supplies for school today."

Narcissa's brow furrowed ever so slightly, her mother had not gone school shopping with her in years, not since she was a child.

Druella had not noticed Narcissa's confusion—she was too excited for her daughter's final year at Hogwarts. "You'll need a new cauldron, and robes, a new case for your wand and a new set for your toilette, and then we _must_ stop for tea" she trilled—her eyes cast upward in thought—and Narcissa's excitement rose with every word. "But we can't do any of those wonderful things until you get out of the bath!" She plucked a warm, fluffy towel from the pile Critter had placed upon Narcissa's vanity, and unfolded it, rising from her seat, holding it open for her last little girl.

Narcissa rose from the water, unashamed of her nudity as she wrapped herself up in the soft fabric and her mother's arms, for her mother was perhaps the only being she knew of that maintained the propriety of their kind as steadfastly as she, and under such rules of thought, there was no need for boundaries of this nature, as there is no relationship more pure than that between a mother and a child.

Once she was sufficiently cocooned, Druella planted a gentle kiss upon her forehead, and stated lovingly, "Now, why don't you dry yourself off, and I'll go see if Critter has cleaned those rose robes of mine you admire so greatly." At that, she turned on her heel, calling out to the house elf, and departed from Narcissa's room.

Narcissa tiptoed to her nightstand, attempting to walk with as little contact possible to the freezing floor. She quickly snatched up her wand and fled to her dressing room—to the softer surface of the wood floor. No sooner had she charmed herself dry and changed into the appropriate undergarments had her mother reappeared with Narcissa's favorite robes—she sighed with delight—even on the hanger the wonderful chiffon swayed with the grace of a fairy dance.

Her mother removed the hanger and unzipped the back, "Come here, love, you must step inside them if you wish to wear them."

Narcissa practically pranced forward, and did as she was told, holding her hair to the side as her mother zipped her within the robes. "Thank you, Mumma," Narcissa smiled, entirely happy. She settled into her vanity and began to brush her hair smooth and straight, as she began every morning. But her mother stopped her, gently removing the silver brush from her hand, and taking up the job herself. "Mumma, I can do it myself," she protested lightly, confused, as her mother had not attended to her in such a manner since before her Hogwarts days.

"Hush, child," Druella said quietly, smiling at the girl in the mirror as she began to tenderly run the bristles through her daughter's white-blond hair. "You're my little princess… but _my_ how you've grown."

Narcissa beamed, understanding full well she was her mother's favorite, reveling in the attention—reverently absorbing every second. She watched her graceful movements in the reflective glass of her vanity, "Mumma, I am not _that_ grown, I've not even graduated."

Druella smiled wistfully down at her last child as she ran a final lock of hair through the brush. It appeared Narcissa had been unaware how she'd noticed her youngest daughter cross from child to woman—swinging to and fro like a pendulum of hormones- over course of the summer—and she knew, now that Narcissa had begun to toy with the talent of being a woman, she would remain her little princess for only the briefest of windows. When she was finished she leaned forward and lightly kissed her daughter's temple, at which Narcissa grinned. Druella turned toward the mirror, her face still close to Narcissa's and admired the similarities—out of her children, she had always preferred Narcissa's looks the most, as having such fine features was a mark of the purest blood.

From just beyond the edges of her happiness, Narcissa was aware of the click-clack of another approaching her room. Druella smirked conspiratorially, "We have a surprise guest accompanying us today."

Suddenly a form appeared in the frame of her dressing room—equally blond and equally pure—"You're _too_ lucky, Narcissa, I miss Hogwarts already. Being engaged is _such_ a bore."

Narcissa spun round in her seat and said with a wink, "Well if you're bored, than I don't believe you're doing it correctly."

Aurelia's laughter bounced delightedly off every surface in Narcissa's dressing room. "Ha! You're one to talk about doing things correctly—you spent all summer in the sun and returned to dreary old England with a pastier pallor than when you left." The beloved cousin turned her attention to her elder, respectfully, "Good morning, Aunt Druella, how are you doing?" She leaned forward and kissed Druella on the cheek in greeting.

"Just fine," Narcissa's mother responded, her focus on Aurelia's lovely ring. "Aurelia, darling, if you would like help planning your wedding, I'd be happy to be obliged. I can't tell you how anxious I am for Narcissa to be betrothed soon so that I may begin the planning—it's the best part of your wedding!"

Narcissa pouted, not liking the course of this conversation—why was everyone so quick to skip over Bella—she was four years older after all! Just because her eldest sister was practically a hurricane in a skirt did not mean she would never marry! For Narcissa would not stand it if she was the only one to be held to the smothering protocol—besides, Bella had become awfully cozy with Rodolphus lately—should she venture any further the two mine as well be forced to marry, or Bella would lose all respect within their world.

Aurelia turned to her cousin, and, upon observing the raincloud above her lovely little head, laughed raucously. "Cissa, don't pout, you'll get premature wrinkles, and then no one will marry you!"

As Aurelia grabbed Narcissa's arm and yanked her unceremoniously upward, she could not help but contemplate what her life would like should she refuse to marry, yet did not like the image that came to pass—spinster status. Yuck.

Narcissa stepped out of a plush, silken dressing room in La Fierté de la Pureté, the strictly pure wizarding department store her mother had demanded upon relocating to—not that Aurelia nor Narcissa would have protested in the first place—after a half-blood had dared to gaze in her general direction while in Diagon Alley. "Such dreadful pollution of our community," she had huffed as she stomped away.

Narcissa walked delicately across the marble, her feet causing less sound than a whisper in times of war, into the center of the rooms where she was met with the amiable musings of her dear cousin and mother. She twirled ecstatically—reveling in the smooth fabric of the robes, the lush plum color flying up around her like a cloud snared between the dark of a storm and the deepest source of a sunset. They had spent the majority of the day flitting about fancifully from beautiful trinket to beautiful dress, from china tea cup to Parisian macaroon—or there are no limits to the mirth money affords you when you're a Black.

She continued to spin, control over her mind slipped with each turn, relaxing her senses while aggravating her necessity for control. With each revolution every enigma she pertinaciously maintained at the periphery of her deep blue eyes began to unwind. Knots unraveled at an alarming rate, heatedly returning to their original state. _Spin._ Lucius's hand gripped at her back, drawing her close with a force that frightened her, excited her. _Spin._ Aurelia's ring transformed into a snake, writhed around the girl's finger, traveling quickly up her form to her neck, where it proceeded to strangle her. _Spin_. Bellatrix—her hair like a nest of vultures—her cheeks gaunt—her eyes barbarous with insanity—wrapped up in chains—howling before a camera in a dingy striped dress. _Spin_. Herself. She was older, in a very large, empty house, watching her two children a boy and girl—they were fully formed monsters—beautiful bastards—perfection other than their faces, which most closely resembled withering candle wax. _Spin_. "Beware, my pet," the ghostly face had warned her maliciously. "Beware, beware, _beware_."

"It's lovely, lovely, lovely," her mother cooed.

"Beautiful," Aurelia agreed.

_Spin_. Their words went unnoticed. Each deftly held secret had mercilessly unfurled, wracking Narcissa with layer upon layer of thought—all terrifyingly contradictory—all without propriety. Were her eyes agape, the hurricane of expectation—the cyclone of concern—the thunderstorm of thought would've been palpable—abundantly clear to every watcher in sight. Thus, Narcissa sealed her eyes shut, kept them under lock, bolt and ke-

"Such pretty robes require a beautiful occasion." She recognized that voice, the low hum that reverberated throw the surrounding space like the release of a mushroom cloud.

Despite her better judgment, her eyes snapped open, allowing the man to see all that she fought to hide.

"Romulus," her mother said, her voice entirely sing-song, "How wonderful to see you."

Druella remained in her seat, extending her hand, which he kissed quickly, as was custom. "The pleasure is mine, Druella." (An attendant scurried in behind him, placing his robes in a room quickly before leaving the pureblood clientele to their privacy.) He continued to exchange shallow greetings, which Narcissa ignored as he bowed slightly to Aurelia before turning to her, his eyes slyly following the curve of her shape. She smirked, the clouds rolling over, the spheres returning to their rightful place, allowing room for a devious glint.

Narcissa curtsied delicately, "Mr. Lestrange."

Druella beamed at her daughter's flawless execution of their strictest rules of propriety, unaware of the lazy manner in which she rose back upward, her eyes closed and lips parted—mocking the motions of satisfaction.

However, Aurelia was never one to miss a beat of bad behavior, and immediately noticed her cousin's flirtations. Narcissa gestured slyly her wishes to be rid of her mother, to which Aurelia responded with a wicked grin and a wink. She then turned toward her aunt, who had been explaining their day to Romulus, who was clearly uninterested, but too polite to show it.

"Actually Aunt," she interjected cunningly, "I was hoping I could steal you away for a moment or two—you see, I couldn't help but notice the beautiful bridal department-"

"Oh Mother, you _must_," Narcissa interrupted impishly. "I only have a few more robes to try, I'll be along shortly."

"Well, alright," Druella conceded easily, practically unable to hide her excitement. As she departed, she bid farewell to Romulus, who responded curtly, his eyes scarcely able to leave Narcissa.

Narcissa began to retreat to her dressing room, encouraged by a parting grin from Aurelia. Once within, she quickly slipped out of the beautiful purple robes, adding them to the large pile she intended to purchase. In truth, she had already tried on every set of robes the store offered in her size, but her mother had not noticed, for she was too distracted by the beauty of them all. She selected a set of deep green robes and pulled them up over her body, she groped for the zipper, but could not reach—not a problem for a witch, as there are many spells to deal with such minor problems. But she had a better idea.

"Mr. Lestrange," she purred, a devious creature growing to fruition in her eyes.

He emerged from his room, in the process of trying a set of long, black robes. "Yes, Ms. Black?"

For a moment she disregarded her purpose, in favor of watching him, distracted by the peculiarly sinister nature in which his cloak absorbed the atmosphere around him. It was as if gravity had found a new master, and shifted with each step he took toward her.

But Narcissa was not one to lose her poise simply at the sight of a man. Thus, when he grew close, she turned, revealing the smooth skin of her back, the delicate curve of her waist—she brushed her hair away, her fingers trailing lightly over her neck. She glanced up at him, her lips curving around each word, "I can't reach," she pouted. "I hope you don't mind, I need only a moment of your help."

With a chuckle, Romulus extended an obliging hand, raising the zipper past the swell of her hips to the cross section where they narrowed and transformed into the cage of her heart. As the zipper inched nearer to the close, Narcissa shifted—wriggling her shoulder slightly—causing her sleeve to cascade down her arm. He paused, waiting for her to correct it. But many moments passed and she did not. His hand—moving on its own accord—abandoned the zipper dead in its tracks and grasped the center of her forearm where the fabric had fallen. Slowly, he returned the sleeve to its rightful place—the tips of his fingers absorbing the texture of her skin.

Suddenly he recalled the mad storm he had witnessed in her eyes, for it was the only way in which he knew to explain what was occurring. As if compelled by subconscious thought, he stepped forward—lowering his lips to the soft curve of her neck—and she smirked, turning toward him. The dark, cackling clouds drew in, and he lost conscious control of his own body, blindly following her movement—compelled by each clap of blue thunder. He breathed inward heavily—as if absorbing the smoke of a drug he wished to savor—for it was all his mind could muster to compare this too. He knew not how he had backed Narcissa against the mirror of her room—shut the door silently with an experienced hand—how her legs had come to settle around his waist. _No_. He understood only flashes of color—the heady, heavy rush of her perfume as it filled him—consumed him. The way in which his senses separated from his body, ceased to act individually, amalgamated into a highly saturated, unified form compelled him to continue, wanting more.

His head reeled—he could not fathom the cause of this astonishing reaction, for he had been with many women before—yet none had caused him to feel beyond himself, as this little witch was. This little witch! She was barely a woman—hardly a full step away from childhood—but she impelled him to want—yearn—need for more. His fingers strummed the swells of her chest, eliciting a sigh—a cry—a small little sound that found its source deep within the wells that made Narcissa a woman. At such movement her eyes flew open—eyelids fluttering like a bird in pursuit of his prey—and he saw it—so close now that there was less than little distance between them. He saw it—at the very center of the storm—the calm for which all chaos performed: the answer to each and every question she inspired in others. He wanted it. He must possess it, for it was the key to achieving the climax of this high. He launched his pursuit, vaguely aware of her aggressive nature—as if she too were searching for an answer.

Romulus traveled deep with the storm—past the signs of previous explorers—a corpse or two littering the trail—through bolts of lightning—one in particular appearing acutely similar to her eldest sister. He narrowly avoided a fit of rage, but fell deep within a gasp of wanting—only to come out within a chasm of fear. There were names, numbers, letters—a ticking clock—all actively attacking his faculties—forcibly distracting him with a tell-tale sweep of pleasure through his system.

But he was so close! He could feel the winds calm as he approached the answer—heard the cries cease as he extended his hand—what he wanted—his greatest desire—just at the end of his fingers.

"_No, we're not even courting_." From the periphery of his pursuit he understood a protest. "_I cannot allow it_—so improper."

Ending as rapidly as it had begun, he assumed awareness of himself once more. He came to realize that they were not against the mirror, as he had previously believed, but in the center of the room, her feet planted firmly on the floor. Her dress was zipped up tight—her sleeve in its rightful place—her hair perfectly straight and neat as it eased like molten silver down the length of her back. The answer he so desperately longed for was far out of reach, at the deepest point of her dark blue eyes—his pursuit hiding playfully at the corners of her mouth—tugging it upwards into a smile.

"Thank you," she cooed graciously, turning toward the mirror to examine her figure.

Apparently satisfied, she turned to him, twirling slightly. "What do you think?"

He was stunned, "Beautiful," being the only word his weakened mind could corral.

"Yes," she agreed without humility. "I like them too. I shall add them to the others."

Romulus glanced at the large collection of robes she was referring to, only distantly comprehending her when she said, "Although, I do believe these are my favorite."

The following day while Narcissa was taking her tea with Aurelia in the Grand Library, Bellatrix slammed ajar the large oak doors—as such an ego requires a great deal of room to maneuver freely—with a mixture of mischief and the maternal compulsion to protect her youngest sister lighting her fire. She settled in quickly between her sister and cousin on the large leather couch at the center of the room, for such news could not wait. "Are you aware," she began to question," whom Father is entertaining in his study at this very moment?"

"No," Narcissa answered bluntly, entirely uninterested in her father's business affairs.

Aurelia giggled. "I wager it's Malfoy—he'd have to get your Father's permission if he wants to come courting—wouldn't he?"

Narcissa sighed. "Not necessarily. It depends upon how valid Father and Abraxas's previous agreements are still considered."

"It's sure as shit **not** Malfoy," Bellatrix smirked, momentarily distracted from her maternal need to preserve the innocence of her little blond sister—for she loved knowing more than those around her—even more if she was the key to their greater understanding.

Aurelia deflated slightly as her theory was dashed, but picked again as a new one developed. "Ooo, maybe it's Rabastian Lestrange."

Bellatrix laughed—excited. "No, but you're quite close."

"Rodolphus?" her cousin guessed—on the right track.

"Absolutely not!" Bellatrix balked at the suggestion. "We are nowhere _near_ such a stage-"

"Though you ought to be," Narcissa interjected coolly. "The manner in which you two have been parading about, you should be arranged by now if it is to be proper."

Agitated by her sister's obvious judgment, Bellatrix turned toward her cousin, egging her on. "Regardless, you're still close."

A smirk illuminated Aurelia's face. "Perhaps it's Romulus—he appeared quite enamored with Cissa when we ran into him yesterday."

Narcissa's brow furrowed at the thought, a rush of feeling swooping upward from her wells to her throat like a pack of bees at the memory of the previous day. The manner in which he had looked at her once she had playfully provoked him into zipping her robes—and more, if she was to be honest with herself—as if only a slim thread of propriety had kept him from devouring her on the spot.

Bellatrix's eyebrows fluttered upward. She leaned toward Aurelia, crazy with curiosity. "Really?" the sound of each vowel, consonant and syllable rolled off her tongue with ease. "Was the encounter stimulating enough to compel him to request courtship?"

"I wouldn't know, I did not witness the entire episode." Aurelia answered quickly, eager to determine the purpose of his visit. "Why? Do you believe that is the purpose of his visit?"

"He brought Father a bottle of bourbon from 1882," Bellatrix confided conspiratorially.

Aurelia's eyes widened, understanding the custom to have a distinctly specific interpretation. She shrieked gleefully. "Oh Cissa, how exciting!"

Narcissa scoffed. "And you determined this vintage from what distance? The stairs to the entry hall?"

Bellatrix turned abruptly toward her sister, her eyes narrowing. "The year in question possesses a unique label. Thus, it is easily distinguishable from its brothers," she snapped.

But Narcissa was not frightened, as she was more than accustomed to the tempestuous nature of her eldest sister. "If you say so."

"I do." Bellatrix answered shortly, her foul mood transforming slightly as she recalled the matter at hand. "Aurelia! It is most certainly**not** _exciting_, he is far too old for her."

"Hasn't seemed to halt your previous pursuits," Narcissa jeered, enjoying the effect her words had upon Bellatrix as they settled deep under her skin, for it was a source of satisfaction to not be alone in prim opinion.

Mischievous mirth leaped lavishly back and forth between Aurelia's dark eyes as she beheld the quarreling sisters, as few were brave enough to anger Bella.

"That is entirely different," Bellatrix countered weakly, as she knew full well she was false.

"In what capacity?" Narcissa's chin was raised high in the air, seeing plainly through her sister.

"You'll have such beautiful children once you marry," Aurelia cooed dreamily, diffusing the tension between her feuding cousins. "Though I do believe Rabastian will be a little put out, being usurped by his eldest brother and all."

Bellatrix instantaneously turned on Aurelia. "She is _not_ going to marry Romulus. The entire notion is ridiculous—laughable! He was already in Hogwarts when she was born! That is by no means an acceptable age difference!"

"But Cissa is always so traditional and proper in all other areas, I don't see why she cannot be a little more _modern_ in her choice of husbands," Aurelia volleyed in response coolly, unaffected by Bellatrix, for she had witnessed much worse from the witch with curls as dark and aggressive as a raven.

Narcissa ignored the squabbling girls, instead musing inwardly over the subject of their argument. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to slip away—imagining her life with Romulus: cold, empty house, the abominable, monstrous children of her nightmares (wash. rinse. repeat.)—it was horrendous. She pushed the terrors far from her mind, focusing rather on her current relations with Romulus. She shuddered slightly, entirely tempted, for she could not help herself around him, she felt compelled to give in. An apple—glistening—ruby red—materialized before her on a deep, dark branch—a snake encircling the width of it, hissing lyrically to Narcissa.

"Girls," her father's voice interrupted Narcissa's thoughts and her companion's argument. Cygnus Black stood in the large door to the library. He was perhaps—physically—the opposite of what Narcissa would have imagined the man her beautiful mother to be paired with—as he was only of average height and looks and had grown round with age. But at the time of his marriage to Druella this was of little consequence, as he was a Black, and on name alone might as well be an Adonis. "Permit me a moment's privacy with Narcissa."

Aurelia stood immediately and did as she was told, with Bellatrix not far behind her after a mild protest. The characteristic 11 formed once again between Narcissa's eyes as her father took up the recently vacated space on the couch beside her.

"Narcissa," Cygnus began hesitantly. "I… I understand it is not customary, but I have deemed your consent to be the deciding answer."

"On what, Father?" Narcissa questioned, feigning innocence.

Clever girl, Cygnus noticed, as he was certain Bellatrix had already informed her of Romulus's request, but for her to have known beforehand would've been improper. "Romulus Lestrange has requested my permission to begin courting you, and I wanted to make certain that you found this agreeable."

Narcissa could not help but laugh quietly. "Yes Father, I find it perfectly acceptable. It is merely courting, after all."

Cygnus's shoulder relaxed slightly, and although he was rather effective at hiding it, she noticed. For a man who had always maintained a strict distance between himself and his children—in accordance to the standards of their class—he was being particularly warm-hearted. Thus, Narcissa dared to lean forward and quickly lay a peck on his cheek.

"I assume he is waiting in the hall," she said, returning to their usual decorum.

"Yes," he fathered answered simply.

"Well I don't see any reason for him to wait any longer."

Cygnus rose from his seat, nodded in response to his daughter's final comment, and exited the room.

His absence was soon filled by Romulus, who stopped before the couch—before Narcissa—but did not sit. "Miss Black, I-"

"I know why you're here," she interrupted, and stood, disliking the previous difference in height between them.

"Oh?" He questioned playfully.

"Of course," she laughed lightly and began to circle him. "You cannot expect news of this nature to travel at any average speed in a house full of young women."

"Then why don't you tell me why I'm here, Miss Black. It will make my job much easier," he dared her gently, flirtatiously—power surging from his blue eyes, to the square of his jaw, down over his broad shoulders, across his abdomen, and shot quickly through his long legs.

Narcissa laughed, growing closer to the beautiful red apple that hung before her as she continued to circle him. "You are here, Mister Lestrange, because you wish to court me," she leered. "Even though it appears to be popular opinion in this household that our age difference is vaguely scandalous."

"Popular opinion?" he questioned, amused.

"Yes, you couldn't tell?" she mocked him lightly.

As she began to turn about him once again, he extended his left arm, catching Narcissa up within it, drawing her close. "Is this opinion yours?"

She leaned forward, leaving hardly any space between them. "Can I tell you a secret?" she whispered coquettishly.

He smirked, enjoying her game. "Of course, Miss Black."

"First," she began, and wrapped a lazy arm around his neck. "If we are to be courting, you must stop calling me 'Miss Black'—we shall use first names."

"So, Narcissa," he said, his smile lighting his words. "Does that indicate your consent?"

"Second," she continued, brushing aside his question as she believed he ought to have known better. She ran her fingers through the short hair at the back of his head, drawing him so close her breath teased his lips as she spoke. "I have no intention of marrying you."

Romulus could not help laughing, for as much as he desired the beautiful young witch, he had no plans for marriage either.

She took his mirth as a positive agreement to her conditions, and sealed the proposition by finally eliminating any wretched stretch of space that could have possibly remained between them. She pressed her lips upon his, gripping at his hair. He responded by bringing his other arm up around her and squeezing the curve of her form briefly. She laughed lightly, leaving space for his tongue to enter her mouth—she sucked on it lightly—enjoying the stiffening of his muscles and the manner in which he gripped her harder in reaction.

Narcissa plucked the apple from the dangling branch, and sank her teeth deep past its ruby skin into the juicy center of its ripe flesh. She ripped the bite out and away from the body, juice running down her chin. The charming snake writhed around the branch—dancing with delight, for yet another young beauty had succumbed to the temptation and bitten of the fruit.


	7. Chapter 7

With a small spoon clasped softly between her pointer finger and thumb, Narcissa delicately stirred two sugar cubes into her tea. She watched, with mild interest, as the dainty particles separated and dispersed, melting into the steaming liquid. She sat: spine straight, legs crossed gracefully at the ankles, shoulders back. Romulus watched her from his seat across the small table, noticing her far away gaze, the new manner in which she had been wearing her hair—piled up loosely, genteelly, atop her head (were he not a man perhaps he would have noticed that she was mimicking her mother)—the glow of her skin in the sunlight. He could not help but marvel at how fair her skin was—entirely alabaster.

She had been particularly quiet today, so he had suggested they go out for afternoon tea—to a little room on the Thames where she could watch the stream of life ebb and flow—hoping to provoke a reaction out of her. She seemed to like it, but then again, he could not fathom why he had come to care, as they had clearly agreed to this arrangement with one purpose, only going through the formal process of courting to maintain the pristine nature of her name in their unforgiving society. When the waiter had come to take their order, she had laid her delicate hand upon his wrist, which was resting on the table, the pearls of her bracelet sliding down the petite circumference of her arm. She had ordered for him—a particularly unique blend rumored to contain an antidote for the most gruesome of snake venom—with a wink, for her hand lay softly against his barbarous tattoo. She smiled upon receiving her tea, but said nothing since ordering. Now the wink had settled back into its usual home—along the line of her lashes.

He wondered what she could be thinking about as she watched the boats come into port along the river. He could not remember what he had thought about at the dawn of his last year of Hogwarts—Quidditch, probably and girls. But he was very unlike her at this age, much less… grown. It startled him in a few rare moments when it occurred to him how young she truly was, yet how adult she already appeared to be. As the wind swept the small hairs that curled at her temples out of her face, it struck him what a perfect wife she would make some man, someday—not his, he knew—somehow not in any way forlorn about it. Perhaps it was due to his preference to never marry—simply drift from plaything to desirable object until he ceased to breathe. Maybe it was perfectly alright with him because he knew full well that while he was interested in her youth and beauty, she was interested in him for his experience and power. He enjoyed the way she used him—to evade what would inevitably become of her—he felt bigger than himself.

At first he had believed that this was a game—to her—by which she could grope in the dark at being a woman. But he quickly came to understand he could not be more wrong. It was as if in the mere moments she had spent on her seventeenth birthday—in the limbo hours between youth and grown—she had grasped the full meaning of being a woman, mastered it, and made it her own. It blew hid mind, for he was still—however unaware of it—entirely mystified as to what it meant to be a man.

She took a sip of her tea, her eyes resting on him. As she lowered her cup, a small smile—a smirk, really—formed upon her lips, and her left eyebrow took the form of an arch.

He understood she expected him to speak, as it was uncommon for a man in polite society to watch a woman without a word on his mind. "Erm… Would you- uh- would you like me to accompany you to the station tomorrow for your departure?" he asked, hoping she would say no, as his presence would likely be rather awkward.

Narcissa laughed lightly at his suggestion. "That won't be necessary, Mother will be escorting me to the train tomorrow—she has become quite sentimental about it in these last few days."

"Right. Good," he responded, relieved.

"Do you like your tea?" she asked, taking another sip of her own.

Romulus glanced down at his cup, noticing for the first time that he had yet to try it. He quickly raised it to his lips and swallowed it so quickly his tongue hardly had a chance to wonder at its flavor. "Yes. It's quite good."

"Ahuh," she agreed, watching him, holding her cup in both hands up near her mouth just before she took another sip. She laughed quietly, entirely amused, and settled her cup back in its saucer. She smiled at him, resting her hand on his arm again, and leaned forward. "It's alright, you know. You don't have to like this… we can leave."

She slipped a few fingers beneath his sleeve, drawing circles across the sensitive skin of his wrist.

"No," he began to argue, "No, I don't mind this. And you like this-"

She laughed fully, effectively halting the progression of his words. "I like a great many things."

He glanced down at the cold brown water in his cup, then up at her. "Yeah?"

"Yes, of course," she exclaimed, then lowered her voice. "Romulus, I do not expect these sorts of things from you."

"Really?" He was shocked, he had always had to put up with this sort of nonsense with the other women he had courted.

"Really. I'm not trying to trick you. I do not expect you to do things you do not care to."

His brow furrowed for a moment. "Will you do things you don't like?"

Typical pureblood man, Narcissa could not help but think as she unconsciously toyed with the naked flesh of her ring finger. "Absolutely not."

Whether her gesture was conscious or not, Romulus understood the message, and was dumbfounded. For this blunt, calculating nature was among the last attitudes he would have expected of her.

As he stared, she gathered her gloves and her clutch, and stood. "Come on, let's go."

"What?" He attempted to blink away his shock.

She had to fight the urge not to correct him, as a properly educated man would not bark a question. In order to prevent the execution of her instincts, she draped an arm round his shoulder and purred, "Let's go. I'm sure we can find _something _we'd both like to do."

Romulus could not recall a previous moment in his life in which he had moved with greater speed. It was not her words which motivated him to drop a handful of galleons on the table, grab her firmly by the waist, and apparate them away, but the manner in which she said them—as if she was lying in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets, entirely free of clothing—daring him to come closer, to learn what she kept secret.

When their feet landed firmly on the hard wood floor of his London flat, he had no more on his mind than the calculation of how many well placed kisses would convince Narcissa to be free of her robes. But she separated from him, glancing around at her new surroundings.

"Where are we?" she questioned, setting her purse upon a small, black marble table in the entry hall. "Are we still in London?"

"Yes," he answered quickly, taking hold of her arm and bringing her close. "This is my flat."

"But I thought your-" he had drawn her close and begun to trail kisses down her neck, revealing more skin to feast upon, eliciting a high little sound from Narcissa—a sharp intake of breath. "I thought your Manor was in Wiltshire?"

"It is," he grumbled in between kisses. "I keep this for when I'm in town on business."

She had allowed him to raise her by her hips and set her upon the very table on which she had placed her bag, settling a leg around his waist, drawing him closer. She ran her fingers through his hair—tugging at it slightly, for she enjoyed the way it provoked him. He raised his lips from her collar bone to her mouth, kissing her aggressively. She yanked at his hair again, pulling him away from her momentarily. She laughed lightly, "Am I business?"

A voracious grin lit his savage features before he dove back to her lips, biting at them until she allowed them to part, and his tongue to enter her.

Narcissa peeled away the outer layer of his robes, leaving only his summer shirt and trousers. She raked her fingers across his back, as the current placement of his mouth prevented her from the usual manner of expression. He enjoyed this new form and slid his hand up her back beneath her robes, savoring the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, and the way in which she writhed beneath his touch. She laughed ever so slightly as she moved from his mouth to the soft skin beneath his ear. Somewhere far away, in the distant reaches of his mind, Romulus wondered why she was always laughing, but this said little seed did not have even a glimpse of the soft earth of his mind, for it was smothered and crushed as she began to run the tip of her tongue lightly over the curve of his ear, her breath humming with satisfaction.

It was for the best, really, that this idea had no chance of reaching fruition, as he could not have understood she was simply delighting in the ease at which they had found an activity they both enjoyed.

Narcissa stood on the platform beside her beautiful mother, the edges of her robes billowing about in the steam of the large scarlet locomotive. She held her breath, for she noticed a minute tear forming in the narrowing corners of her mother's eye. Narcissa reached for her hand, as purebloods do not show much affection in such public forums. "Mumma, I will be home," she began, but was forced to stop as Druella—who had glanced about quickly, searching for any eyes that may be watching—wrapped her arms around her daughter.

"You are so grown now, Cissa," she cooed sadly as she separated from her daughter, but remained in close proximity.

"Mumma," Narcissa began, wanting very much to comfort her, but her eyes were drawn to another pair—steely grey, excess amounts of cunning.

Lucius had stopped dead in his path to board the train, transfixed by the sight before him. It had lasted for the briefest of moments, but for a pureblood it mine as well have been a lifetime—entirely innocent, nothing more than the greatest of loves. He expected the usual revulsion to rise in his throat, as he truly loathed the breaking of tradition, but it did not come. Instead a sense of wonder spread over his body, tingling like the sweetest memories of the nursery once it reached his core.

Narcissa managed to tear her gaze away, as the woman before her was the only other force which could captivate her with similar intensity. "I am not _so_ grown," she offered lightly.

Her mother smiled a small melancholy smile. "Yes you are, and I'd venture to say you're entirely aware of it. But it's good to know you'll still lie to your mother when she needs it."

Narcissa's eyes widened slightly, "Mumma!"

Druella laughed through her sadness. "Hush, Cissa. Go along now before you miss the train." She leaned forward quickly and laid a light little kiss on the crown of her daughter's head. She whispered reverently, "Don't forget to write, darling."

Narcissa did as she was told, and turned toward the train. Quickly, she boarded with a smile to her mother and a wave goodbye.

Narcissa sat along the long table with her fellow Slytherins, picking at her salad.

"Is it strange being here without Aurelia?" Gillian Rosier, her cousin on her mother's side asked.

Narcissa looked at the girl sitting on her left, scanning her face for any sign of a disingenuous nature. When she found none, she allowed herself to smile. "To be honest, yes. I miss her terribly. It's just like when Bella graduated."

"I understand," Gillian responded kindly. But Narcissa's eyebrows rose disbelievingly, as on her right side was Gillian's twin sister Artemisia, and she could not recall a moment when the two had ever truly been apart.

Gillian laughed in response to Narcissa's thinly veiled disbelief. "I don't mean, Mia. Mother has clearly gone to great lengths at raising us as if we won't function without each other." She glanced over at her other half, who was currently making a vaguely lewd gesture in the direction of the seventh year boys. Narcissa struggled to keep her pumpkin juice in her mouth at the sight of Rabastan mimicking her in response, using a banana as his aid. Gillian blushed at her sister's impropriety and shook her head. "No, I mean Tiber," she waived her ring finger about joyously. "It's such a bother that he's graduated already."

Narcissa nodded, remembering the announcement of her engagement to Tiberius Nott. She began to pick at her salad again, her attention waning, and wondered as to how many of her house-mates were aware of her current courtship.

On the other side of the table, a few seats up, Lucius watched this exchange, surprised, as Narcissa did not often bother to notice most other people-even those that had belonged to their dwindling circle. As he had been watching her the majority of the meal, it was not very difficult for Rabastan to notice, and comment upon the object of his gaze.

"God, Rom's a bastard, isn't he?" he questioned, shaking his head. "Went through the best of the women in his age, so he has to go for the best of ours."

Lucius stopped, his fork partially raised, each and every morsel of food falling unceremoniously back onto his plate, crashing and splashing on impact. But he did not notice, he did not care. "What?" Less of a question, more of a bark, it was entirely gruff.

Thus, it was surprising when Rabastan did not notice—simply continued talking. "Brutal, yeah? I'm a little shocked he went so far as to court her, but I suppose she wouldn't tolerate his usual bullshit."

Lucius had begun to grip his fork with such anger he was effectively bending the handle. "They're courting?"

"Yeah," Rabastan responded nonchalantly, gulping down a swig of pumpkin juice. Finally, he looked over at his friend, and noticed the stranglehold he had maintained on his utensil. "Shit, mate. Thought you know. S'only been a week, though, and I don't think they're very serious. Saw 'em together a few days ago and she seemed somewhat bored with."

Lucius had long begun to ignore the words of his friend. He could not believe them. He was shocked. Surely—surely she could not be courting another man. Not when she knew his intentions. He watched her rise from her seat, as the meal was now complete. _It could not be true_, the words thundered through his mind, and he became resolved in the notion that he would simply ask her. It was the most logical idea he could muster.

But as he rose, abandoning his plate, the majority of the students in the Great hall adopted the same action—the call of prefects beckoning first years to follow in their path rang off the cold, unwavering surface of the stone walls. It never occurred to him that as Head Boy he ought to be aiding his house prefects in their duties—instructing and training the smarter among them. No, for in matters of Narcissa his mind was singularly focused.

He watched carefully, the swaying of her flashing blond hair as she moved about in the colossal crowd. He followed her as efficiently as possible, finally catching her as the massive group diverged—some climbing to the Ravenclaw tower, others favoring the Slytherin dungeons.

She was chatting idly with Gillian, referencing the sparkle on the girl's left hand from time to time. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but in his shock and rage his voice had fled to the deepest reaches of his stomach. He reached for her, his hand catching her arm, and as this transpired it occurred to him—in a distant echo of his mind—how natural it was to grope through the air for the soft response of her flesh.

She turned to him—his hand sliding down to her wrist as she moved. Her gaze bounced from various points around his head—some on his face—like the cleft of his chin, or the sweep of his skin across cheekbones—but never met his eyes.

"Lucius?" her voice was quiet, for as her mouth stretched to form sound her vocal chords had to search for the courage to speak.

"I-" he began weakly, but stopped, collecting himself. "May I speak with you?" He cleared his throat. "Privately?"

"Yes."

As he guided her to an empty classroom nearby, he noticed she made no attempt to disengage his grasp on her arm, and a surge of hope roared within him, rising in a barking laugh to his lips. Perhaps Rabastan was wrong, it wouldn't be the first time.

He ushered her inside, the dim light of the moon haunting the regal features of her face. Perhaps, he thought with devious satisfaction, that she had allowed him to lead her to such a dark, empty space because of how greatly she had missed him in the weeks since they'd seen each other.

His hope diminished slightly when she pulled away from him, for fear he would notice she had begun to shake. Her breath quickened in her heart—she was nervous, but she could not place why.

Lucius leaned against the door, and she could not help but begin to count the differences between his form and Romulus's.

"May I ask you something?" he began cautiously, unsure of where he stood.

1. Lucius was taller.

"Of course," she turned and sat delicately upon one of the many stools within the classroom.

2. Romulus appeared to be stronger.

He opened his mouth to ask the question that corrupted his thoughts. But once she sat, the hem of her skirt rose and he noticed her legs. For such a petite girl her legs were very long. "How was the remainder of your summer?"

3. Lucius was leaner—his form shaped by years of Quidditch.

Narcissa laughed, as this seemed to be a silly reason to be in a large, dark room alone. But when the twinkle of a sound passed through her mouth and met her lips it was entirely nervous in nature. "It was no different than the rest of the season."

Lucius perked up slightly, as it was another reason to support his hopes. "Narcissa," he began quietly, forcing himself to be bold. "May I ask you a blunt question?"

She smiled warmly at him, but was absolutely terrified. He could not see in the dark of the room that her lips stretched tightly across her teeth, her hands shook, her pulse raced. She could not fathom why she was nervous, why she longed to run from the room—explain to him her infatuation with Romulus would pass soon enough. Her voice shook when she answered, "yes."

"Are you and Romulus Lestrange courting?" His voice was grim, hardly a whisper in the stillness of the dark.

She held her breath, searching desperately for a means to avoid answering his question truthfully, but she found none. "Yes."

He stiffened and ceased to lean against the door. "He's little old for you," he scoffed, arrogance corrupting his form from head to toe.

Narcissa felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. But her spine straightened, she raised herself to her feet, her chin raised defiantly. She laughed coldly. "There's no need to feel inferior, Lucius."

The haughty smirk dropped from his face, his brow clouding over in anger. "Don't be ridiculous. I simply believe you're being foolish, allowing a man with so much more… experience—" he laughed at the word—"then yourself to court you."

She had crossed the distance between them, attempting to exit the room, but he did not budge from his place in the doorframe as he spoke—hoping she would abandon her resolve uncharacteristically.

"I am not a little girl," she whispered darkly, increasingly irritated by this stigma which haunted her.

"Could have fooled me," he muttered with a sneer. He was lying of course, and was surprised she could not tell, for he was clearly admiring her form through his anger.

She pushed past him, slamming the door open. "Arrogant prick," her words were venomous as she stomped away, slamming the door shut with her wand, aiming—and succeeding—at hurting him.

"Self-absorbed bitch," he barked after her, but she was gone—disappearing from sight in the space of time it had taken him to shake off the blow to his face—and ego.

He raced through the corridor to the Common Room under the lake, through the portal, and up the stairs to his dormitory. Rage—pure, white, excessive—coursed through his system, latching onto each and every vessel of blood like a parasite with a purpose. He knocked aside anyone and anything in his path, searching—searching—searching until he found the poor soul who would bare the blunt of his anger. This soul happened to be a friend he'd known since childhood, a roommate, a relative of the legitimate object of his hate.

Rabastan had his back turned when Lucius launched the full force of his hulking body at him—he had been unpacking and recounting particularly successful summer escapades with the other boys they shared the room with. He landed with a thunderous thud, the combined force of their bodies shaking most of the surrounding furniture. Lucius secured the boy beneath him to the floor using his weight. Rabastan, who was of equal height and strength remained motionless for a moment, as he was in shock; he came to at the first collision of Lucius's fist with his face.

"What? The? Fuck, mate?" he roared, turning his head, narrowly missing a second and third blow. He rolled and shoved, and Lucius fell off him momentarily.

Lucius did not respond—rather, not with words. He began to kick at his friend—desperately, savagely. He could not contain himself—the disappointment, hurt, anger—it was too much for him to handle—not when he was raised to get his way.

While Rabastan knew why Lucius was attempting to bludgeon his skull to smithereens, he still found his action to be, "bullshit! Complete fucking bullshit!" he turned, protecting himself from yet another blow to the gut. He rose to his feet deftly and turned on Lucius, retaliating without mercy. He managed to land a few good strikes before they were separated by two of the burliest boys in their year: Crabbe and Goyle.

"What the fuck?" Rabastan roared for a second time before Lucius managed to break Crabbe's hold on him and popped him once more in the jaw.

Crabbe quickly scrambled to gain control of Lucius, and Goyle fought harder at restraining Rabastan, who bellowed: "You fucking sucker punched me—you fucking prick!" He turned his head to the side and spat out the blood that was quickly pooling in his mouth.

"You fucking son of a whore," Lucius's face had turned scarlet in his rage, and he struggled against Crabbe once more, unable to control himself. "You knew—you know how I feel about her! But you couldn't give less than a mudblood's shit! You're fucking courting her!"

"Do I look like my fucking brother?" Rabastan had shaken himself free of Goyle, and had brought his face within inches of Lucius's. "Do I?" he repeated, his voice infinitely lower than it had been a moment ago. He punched Lucius severely in the gut, and the boy doubled over. Rabastan sunk into a squat in order to maintain eye contact with his friend. "He's a fucking bastard—he should know better. But his head's too far up his arse to notice."

Lucius nodded, calming. Crabbe released him, causing him to tumble slightly, but he quickly ascended to his full height with the help of Rabastan. "Truce, mate?" he muttered by means of an apology.

Rabastan nodded. "Yeah, truce." He ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at the back of his head. "You think maybe—maybe it's Cissa's idea?" he offered quietly, privately to Lucius. "It can be awful hard to say no to the girl."

Lucius shook his head quickly, not wanting to dwell on the thought, as he could not convince himself it was all truly Romulus.

Rabastan saw Lucius was unsure and smiled, brushing the question aside. "Shit!" he turned and rummaged through his trunk. "You really tried to beat the hell out of me, mate." He laughed as he found a small velveteen pouch, and raised it in the air, turning back to the three boys in the room.

"Yeah, well, isn't like you held back in retaliation, did you?" Lucius smirked rakishly as Rabastan tossed him the beautiful little bag. "These left over from the party?" he asked as he removed a bewitching chocolate and tossed it in his mouth.

"Lord, no! Your girl took good care of ensuring those were gone," Rabastan said with a laugh as the bag went around the room and was returned to him. He removed a couple—quickly sending them down the hatch with a "Cheers, mate." Once he chewed and swallowed, he continued, "No, these are from my personal stash. Always got to keep a little pick me up on hand, if you know what I mean."

From the adjoining dormitory, Narcissa heard the thunderous scuffle, and was near investigating the sound when there was a light tap at her window. She turned, and lifted the latch on the owl-flue—which allowed for mail to be delivered to the Slytherin home under the lake—permitting the great horned owl to enter her room. He flew past the other girl's four poster beds to her own, resting on her bedside table, extending a leg, offering a small, rolled piece of parchment. She smiled, removing a treat from the drawer in the tale on which he perched. She offered it to the owl, who gnawed on it happily, flying out whence he came one she untied the letter. As she unfurled the note, she recognized Romulus's thin angled script.

_Cissa,_

_I hope you arrived safely. Your parents and I have made arrangements with your Headmaster to continue the courting process while you are at school. Next weekend you will be escorted to the Hogsmeade Station Friday night at six, it will take you to King's Cross station, where I will meet you. You will return to Hogwarts Sunday morning. Please pack formal wear._

_Best,_

_Romulus_


	8. Chapter 8

The Lord Voldemort sat upon a marvelous chair, a basin filled to the brim with scalding water at his feet. As he slowly submerged the withering sticks of bone and skin, which constituted as his poor excuse for legs, the water splashed to the marble floor beneath him, soaking all unfortunate enough to be near. He waited. It would require a moment or two for the life to return—for the blood of man to gather enough courage to pool—to serge once again through the veins of the wicked. Beside him was a golden vessel stocked with a rare concoction crafted to encourage the weakest of human necessity to return to the godly. For that is the light in which Lord Voldemort—or the Dark Lord, if you are to ask the followers who writhe at his feet, dazzled by his magic and might—regarded himself. Celestial. Divine. Eternal. The phoenix of the wizarding world.

But such august immortality does not arrive to a wizard free of nature's burden. As consequences befall all those who cheat the balance—who mock the laws of original man. He dug his lengthy, foreboding fingers deep within the rigid, merciless potion, removing a portion as he simultaneously raised a leg free of its burning punishment and began to rub the salve along his lifeless limb. As he moved through cycles of resurrecting life, his mind wandered, took in the details of this palatial room in which he currently dwelled. Yes. The Lestranges were most remarkable servants. Gracious. The eldest Lestrange—a follower from their Hogwarts days—was a remarkable wizard, but perhaps his greatest contribution to the cause were his three hulking, brutal sons. _Sons_—the perfect soldiers—raised on parables of the Dark Lord—the most obedient followers—for they believed not only were the fighting for power, but for home, country, and family. It was practically patriotic in their eyes. The noblest of pursuits: a perfect outlet for their unbridled brutality.

At the slightest mention of the Dark Lord's newest necessity—a headquarters, for their latest had been corrupted—Romulus immediately offered up his manor, like a sacrifice to Ares in the name of their plight. _Romulus_, the name hissed across his mind—but was it him? _No._ "Nagini," the Dark Lord purred.

_Romulus_, she hissed again, rising up his torso, encircling the whole of his form.

"Ahaha," a horse rattle rumbled upward through him as the Dark Lord laughed at the affection of his treacherous pet toward a favorite warrior. At the spark of the name, he remembered—remembered the mention of a _Miss Narcissa Black_, Nagini finished for him—as she knew each and every thought which crossed him mind, for theirs was one in the same. She was to accompany Romulus tonight, and the Dark Lord was _curious_. He had heard a great deal about the youngest little Black.

Inwardly, he surveyed each generation of soldiers—some rising to power, some falling from grace—lapping up against each other with the vigor of the sea. He searched beyond those he might already claim under his possession, seeking the next regime. He sighted the freshest span of man within the aristocracy, for his ensuing step must be—_snaaaaaaaaaag_—the language of his consciousness unwound—the effect of an unfinished immortality. His tongue grappled for the word: _p_… _p_… _hollow letter_—reversed _n_—fli_pp_ed—_switch_—_grooooooooooooooooooowl _of an antagonized beast in the presence of his master. His mind could not muster the word. He moved on. For weakness must never be dwelled upon. He could see it. He could hear it; this new crop of the finest wizarding blood crashing up against the shore, churning sand, shaping the land into new forms.

There was rustle—movement at the periphery of his attention—a small figure moved further into the room—a house elf sent to change out the Dark Lord's water. Voldemort turned in the direction of the movement and grimaced. What a filthy creature. "Nagini," the Dark Lord hissed in parseltongue, "are you hungry?"

The snake, vicious and powerful in every imaginable capacity, slithered away toward the little sound—a squeak of fear—and lavishly wrapped itself around the elf. The Dark Lord turned toward the spectacle, for he genuinely loved watching the life wither and drain from the eyes—it was the most rewarding facet of his malevolent function.

The Dark Lord eyed all in his presence from his throne at the height of the hall. One couple in particular caught his eye, as the other women of the room would bear him suitable soldiers—that was the function of the night's festivities, after all, to earn the approval of the Dark Lord—but none were like the exquisite witch perched finely upon the arm of his greatest soldier.

He watched not his soldier, but the girl, for no matter his standing or stature a man is always judged in full by the woman on his arm. She glided about the room like a swan on the water, her value soaring infinitely upward with each passing glance she claimed rightfully as her own. As she moved easily from couple to couple, allowing her motions to appear controlled by her suitor, he noticed she possessed the greatest essence of the aristocracy. For in great truth, she was merely a child adorned in beautiful robes and heavenly bobbles, but the manner in which she was raised empowered her to fool one and all—all except for the keen eye of the Dark Lord. However, this minute slip in the coverage of her charms did not diminish his appreciation of her feminine talents. On the contrary, it allowed him to enjoy them further, for he felt above the act—as if it were a secret joke only he and the belle of the ball were aware of.

The number of couples which she felt it her duty to greet—for tonight she was not seventeen, but a woman playing the role of a potential wife—soon dwindled and there was but one which she must pay her respects to. She walked with unimaginable ease, parting the crowd like the queen of a foreign fairy land; she was truly a sight to behold—a glimpse of sorcerous fantasies from the beyond. In the presence of this great and astonishing young woman, his mind began to catalogue the simplest of details pertaining to her person: her robes were white, her hair was silvery blond, her skin alabaster, her teeth, which peeked out at him from behind the soft pink pillows of her lips, were smooth and opalescent. He rolled his wand between his long, spidery fingers as his consciousness made the leap from simple facts to the effects of her class. The dark of his eyes clouded with excess of ambition, and his tongue stirred within his mouth, for every ember, flame and spark of his raging ego grappled—compelled—to express the mythic muse before him.

"Pure," his mouth concluded on a definition; it hummed like a coveted confidence beneath his breath as she made her final approach. Within the confines of his form, his ego swelled with feverous excitement like the ancient Achilles upon first sight of Athena. For now he possessed the icon of his plight—a figure who embodied without compromise the ideals of his holocaust. The yearning for the decimation of the majority of a race simply to right where he had felt wronged momentarily disappeared like the achievement of a candle in the face of a hurricane.

"My Lord," his soldier bowed dutifully. The Dark Lord's eyes jumped for the briefest of seconds to his lieutenant and this rupture in his focus allowed for the rapturous release of his vicious grace. His spine rose, vertebra by vertebra, toward the realm which was so thoroughly repulsed by the very nature of the smile that spread slowly, stretching his waxen skin to its greatest extent.

"May I introduce to you Miss Narcissa Black," Romulus continued, bowing slightly in the direction of his most prized possession.

At the mention of her name Narcissa curtsied, sinking to the cool surface of the unforgiving marble. She continued beyond the standard of the usual curtsy, descending so near the floor those surrounding marveled—mouths agape—at her balance. Voldemort delighted in the subtlety of this spectacle, extending a skeletal hand for the refined celestial debutante. She accepted, the youth of her touch shocking the calloused façade of his flesh, ascending with ease to her full height and to a high rank in his favor.

"My Lord," Narcissa murmured, her gaze cast downward in respect.

"Narcissa Black," he whispered with authority, taking pleasure in the design of a private confidence. "What a patrician name." He inclined closer, "there is no need for such reverence—you may look at me."

Gently, cautiously, she promoted the level of her attention, overcoming the instinct to recoil once she met his. This instinct slithered up within her, seizing refuge in her eyes, ensnaring the form of her favorite little sphere. The slight fluctuation in her composure induced the Dark Lord's notice of that peculiar distance which rippled like the death rattle of mermaid across her eyes. He leaned nearer, as many men before had done, devout in the notion that if he dared a little closer, spoke a little softer, he could possess that distance. But as he advanced she turned, blushing gracefully.

"Please excuse me, My Lord," she spoke in the hushed tones of a beloved confidant, "For I am not accustomed to the presence of such a hero."

His breath quickly caught as the little sphere returned to its serene bed, the distance so many longed to claim as their own as safe behind her guise of propriety as a child in the womb. But at her words he could not help laughing—the hoarse cacophony rattling through his ribs like a wrongly charged prisoner desperate to be free. _Oh yes_, he hissed inwardly, _yes, yes_. He understood—it was so _right_ for her to maintain this little trick.

"Tell me," he spoke with gentle manners, rewarding her virginal attitude. "Do you belong to Cygnus's branch or Orion's?"

"My Father is Cygnus—Uncle Orion's branch has only boys."

The Dark Lord smiled in recognition. "Ah, yes. Cygnus, he is one of my greatest supporters."

"Why of course, My Lord," Narcissa was no stranger to this game. "You are the champion of all we stand for."

"And what do you stand for, my pet?"

"The elimination of the blight on our kind." She lowered her voice and dared look upwards at his eyes as she spoke, "In essence: absolute purity."

"Pray, Miss Black, how old are you?" He watched her easy grace, aristocratic manners, listened to her elegant words and could not guess; for the very moment he decided upon one age his mind instantaneously began to hypothesize the next.

Narcissa did not appreciate his inquiry—why did it matter? She had worn the right robes, smiled correctly, curtsied beautifully. She saw no reason for her age to be of any great importance. "I was raised to never allow men to be privy to that particular number," she said, skillfully attempting to dodge his question. But his eyes, which had previously been calm and slightly playful, flashed with rage of such an intensity she nearly trembled with fright. Quickly, she backtracked, desperately hoping she had not betrayed the poise of her upbringing. "But for you, My Lord," she murmured sweetly, "all exceptions will be made… I am seventeen."

The blaze of his ego jumped like a flame at the sudden contact of fuel—flared outward into the atmosphere of his gaze. The flesh of his mutilated limbs rose in response to her answer, awakened to this birth of superlative potential. "My dear Miss Black," the diminutive hairs at the nape of her neck were startled to attention upon the ghostly bristle of his whispering tones. She could sense the frenzy burgeoning at the origin of his innards, and in a moment so quick God disregarded its existence a monstrous notion rumbled, tumbled, jumbled upwards and out, ensnaring Narcissa. "Would you permit me one last question?"

Subtly, she removed her fingers from the palm his hand and returned them to the crook of Romulus's arm, establishing space between them, as she longed to put an end to the path of his questions. "Yes, My Lord," she replied tranquilly, her words climbing outward into the air between them with the finesse of molten silver. "As I said, for _you_ I am an open book."

"Are you still attending Hogwarts?"

Narcissa smiled, enjoying the sounds which permeated all space and time upon his pronunciation of Hogwarts. Within the lifecycle of an envious wink, any hesitation she felt towards him dispersed like vermin in the face of the waking sun. "Yes," each word hummed with warmth as she spoke, "Slytherin class of '71."

"Naturally," a harsh, hoarse ghost of a laugh rattled through the thin skin of his cheeks. "Naturally."

It is in this moment, as she curtsied farewell and fused into the amalgamation of ego and envy before him, in which Lord Voldemort became resolute in the next development of his stratagem. For she had proven true his conjecture that the rising generation of purebloods were ready—ripe for the picking—to be recruited. He steadfastly determined—as he watched her—led by her greedy-eyed suitor—progress toward the shadowy frame of the exit—his next move: Hogwarts.


	9. Chapter 9

They had been courting for months now, much longer than Romulus had anticipated. At the dawn of their courtship, he had estimated only a few weeks would be necessary to achieve his aims. She was beautiful, for certain, but a woman nonetheless—and he had yet to meet one more than a shade different from the last. But as time passed, he found it more and more difficult to satiate his craving for her.

He would escort her to King's Cross at each finale of a weekend courting—accompanied by her lady's maids, an every-present reminder of her teasing chastity—and his blood would rush through each muscle, movement, moment. His mind was truly buoyant—entirely gratified.

But when the steam engine's shrill whistle cut through the thick London air, the life that merely moments earlier had acted to bring his satisfaction to a high now pounded against his flesh, triggering an instinctual want for more. His lungs: sucked in harsh gusts of her lingering scent; his tongue: searched frenziedly for a final taste of her.

At this instant, wonder would dawn, for she would raise the window pain in synchronicity with his fluctuation. Delicate fingers hidden beneath gloves would take shape in the dwindling silver light, followed by skin and eyes that hinted of pleasures to come. Her lips would extend minutely to meet her fingertips, pucker and release. He would find himself envious of the silken gloves that spent so much time stretched over her skin—that lingered precious moments longer than he against her mocking mouth. She would smile coquettishly; her hair would blow through the window; his fingers would contract, wanting more.

In the desperate days that stretched between their last and next moments, he would search for trinkets and baubles to rest along his favorite stretches of her skin in his absence. Some, she liked and kept. Others didn't suit her tastes. Few were not appropriate for a girl of her age to accept, and she promptly returned them with her thanks.

Each time her owl arrived at his window with a neatly packed parcel tied to its leg, he heard her voice hiss in his ear: "You can do better than baubles and tricks." An apparitional Narcissa would materialize before him, fierce and wild with her hair billowing about as it would in a storm. Her little teeth were sharp, and her dark eyes without depth. "Impress me," she'd whisper. Her form would writhe across his mind, "you'll never find yourself in my bed if you continue like this." Her legs would wrap around his dreams. "I can have anything I want;" and the words that would linger like smoke, "make me want you."

In his presence she grew bolder—her manners remained perfectly modest—but she was sharper, brighter. The atmosphere around her molded to the whims and actions of Narcissa, and it was plainly clear she was on the cusp of great change.

* * *

><p>When Narcissa awoke each minute hair that covered her skin stood on end. She rose from her bed, and the moment her feet met the wood floor a pulsating hum soaked her skin. Life, greater than there was before, sparked in the air, and she knew a great transformation was readying itself in the grounds beneath her.<p>

The thought of waking her maids, dressing, and politely inquiring after the action later occurred to Narcissa. But it passed through her mind so quickly she was already moving away the large tapestry that covered her wall before it reached its fullest fruition. She slipped behind the small oak door, and was soon within the corridors that ran like a skeleton beneath the estate.

As she followed the cold stone wall it curved and forked, the echo of ever-growing life began to reach her ears, and she knew if she ventured a little further, pushed on a little farther, she would see it breathing before her eyes. But she turned away, deciding to wait until the changing force was fully grown.

* * *

><p>The Dark Lord's eyes rolled back within his head, and he raised a hand to each temple. He sat within a cold, cavernous chamber, upon a throne of skull and bone, from which he would watch the actions of the day. Flickers of green flame cast from the torches found their way into his vision. He pressed on further, extending his monumental mind until he found her.<p>

Narcissa sat behind a grand desk within a study that was clearly not her own. Without shame she looked through it's contents. There were letters regarding the maintenance of Romulus's estate, remnants of his correspondence with her, arrangements for their weekend courting, but none of these maintained her attention for very long.

She continued to look for anything of interest—anything to explain the remarkable flare of life that hummed beneath her feet—and became still at the sight of a particular mark. The Dark Lord's ego surged with pride, for it was his mark she hesitated over, his mark that inspired her to inquire further.

Unfolding the parchment carefully, she absorbed its contents: plans for further recruitments—dates, locations, discussions of whom would best fortify Lord Voldemort's army. The mention of Hogwarts propelled her curiosity further, and the sparks of her pride that caused her to immediately look for her name amongst every piece of parchment inspired great feeling within the Dark Lord.

He watched her—her icy blue eyes bright with cunning and quick curiosity—her moon-pale skin alive with light—her blood that pooled beneath her cheeks, revealing the strength of her instinctual ambition. She seemed familiar in some way, kin to something very near. The little teeth at the corners of her mouth peeked out. She smiled at the Dark Lord's description of Hogwarts in one particular letter, and it became clear: she reminded him of a Tom Riddle left behind, a Tom Riddle just steps out of school, a Tom Riddle who supplied the shelves of Borgin and Burkes with the wizarding world's grandest and darkest objects.

His value was in the persuasive ability of creamy skin over sharp bones, the smile that spread with convincing ease, and the dark eyes that lured many. He assessed the girl. She represented power as old as magic blood, the assured legacy of those truly pure, the unyielding strength of the nobility. The Dark Lord momentarily considered binding his mark to her skin. But no—he focused on her delicate little wrists, the miniature veins which pressed fresh blood against her flesh, and concluded that he ought not blemish his emblem of purity.

The Dark Lord released his watch on Narcissa. His eyes rolled forward and focused on his fearsome pet. "Nagini," he hissed, "bring Romulus to me."

* * *

><p>Lucius rushed through the brambles, unflinching at the contact of thorns that drew blood. Appiration had not been an option, as it was closely monitored by the Headmaster, nor were carriages or enchanted cars. He had studied the castle for weeks, found what it kept hidden. The only way out of Hogwarts was through passageways, and the only way to Wiltshire was underground. When the sons of the great purebloods received their challenge from the Dark Lord, many felt it impossible, for they had been told so many times before of Hogwarts's impenetrability. And where none could enter, none could leave. But Lucius understood this was a means to filter away the unwanted. Now, it was time to establish the good and the great.<p>

Without warning, the air absorbed the light cast from his wand, robbing him of sight.

"Lumos," he said, but it was extinguished instantaneously.

"The Dark Lord," a voice said in a whipping whisper, "wishes to see your faith. Should you be chosen, he must know you will follow beyond your own perceptions."

Lucius took a step forward into the dark—it was palpable, like ink splashed into the air. It consumed him, filled his lungs, flooded his veins. He took another step, and the vines beneath his feet began to slither. They ran up his legs and pulled him under. The ground of the tunnel crumbled. But he did not panic. If Lord Voldemort wanted to see the lengths of his servitude, he would display them without delay. (It was not of any consequence that the faith he was executing was in his own self—in his belief that his actions would lead him to the power he was ready to inherit—for at this moment, the two were one in the same.)

At his lack of struggle, the Devil's Snare released him, and he found himself at the guarded mouth of a cave. Dark magic shimmered in the air before him. He nudged a rock into his path, testing the ground before him.

Words revealed themselves along the mouth: _Only one way forward, to an end you cannot see. Should your doubt overcome your trust, you will be devoured by me._

Lucius stepped into the threshold of the cave, and the tunnel behind him became engulfed in Fiendfyre.

"Wise choice, young one," came the voice again, "but now there is the matter of your name."

"_Malfoi_," he responded in the original French.

"A pure and powerful lineage," the voice hissed, "but how to be certain?"

Lucius, growing impatient, drew his wand over his finger, opening the flesh and allowing the blood to flow. It fell to the earth beneath him, marking the ancient ground. The fire ceased and the voice recoiled.

"Reveal your faith," the parting words echoed through the cave, and Lucius raced into the dark.

His robes were ever so torn, his skin stained by blood and mud, but he paid this no mind, for it made him look every bit more the hero. It would be clear from the start that he would be most dedicated, most cunning, most talented. Lord Voldemort sensed his presence at the periphery of the tunnel, and was delighted that his next wave of power was now within his grasp.

He turned his attention to the matter before him. "In December you will be going to the Continent," he said to Romulus. "There is a wizard in Istanbul that has survived for nearly a millennium; he is similarly minded in regard to the mudblood infestation, and has pledged his devotion. You will ensure of it."

"Yes, my Lord," replied Romulus with practiced servitude.

"There is another whose sympathies err on our side, and for him you will travel to Prague. It is tantamount that you persuade him to follow the Dark Lord. He will secure the East."

Romulus nodded curtly, like any other soldier with his marching orders. The Dark Lord's attention was waning, his eyes drifting toward the mouth of the tunnel more and more. His wand rolled beneath his fingers, and Nagini curled in anticipation. She hissed, rising toward Lord Voldemort's hand, and hissed once more.

"Oh yes," the Dark Lord continued, "Miss Black will accompany you on your journey."

The torches along the heavy, stone walls crackled as they consumed air. The bustle-swish-scuff of activity just outside the cavern permeated the din. Echoes of a progressing recruit reached them. Romulus did not release breath for many moments. It was an effort to resist doubting the great wisdom of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord knows all, he reminded himself, has foreseen the outcome. Surely, if he has chosen Narcissa it is to guarantee the very greatest result… Yet, he could not stop the thought—the doubt and curiosity that bloomed in his mind.

"There is a question which consumes you," mused the Dark Lord. "And I could very easily pluck it from your mind, but… go ahead."

Romulus selected his words with great care, "why Narcissa, my Lord? While her talents are promising, she has not yet graduated Hogwarts, nor is she a Death Eater. I do not see-"

"No, you cannot," said the Dark Lord, "and for that, you are forgiven." He paused, running a fingernail along Nagini's scales, allowing his extraordinary grace to linger before his follower.

"Dark minds make for fickle allies," he enthused, "and there is no room within my ranks for wavering dedication. Narcissa," his pronunciation of her name was notably hushed, eluding to an enviable familiarity, "will ensure they are steadfast in their loyalty—forever allegiant—to Lord Voldemort."

"How-?"

"It is her very nature," he murmured, "to inspire such devotion."

* * *

><p>While in the library, a gentle hiss caught Narcissa's attention. It slipped into the air and away through the window before she could be certain of it's meaning, but she was consumed by the notion that the slithering sound was her name.<p>

"Pardon," she asked of her lady's maid. The woman, much older than she, looked up from her charmed embroidery momentarily. "I didn't say a thing, Miss."

Narcissa's brow furrowed, and a little eleven appeared on her forehead. "Curious." She looked off in the direction of the sound and decided to follow.

"Narcissa," she heard it again and again and again as she descended further beneath the house. It hissed over the air, and just as she felt she was about to catch it, it disappeared.

She slipped away behind another door, and crept down the ancient stone stairs with great ease. Her soft, slender feet found their way forward, seeing what her eyes could not in the dwindling light.

"Lumos," she whispered, and the corridor before her filled with cold, blue light. There was still no one to be found, but the rumblings of life she felt upon waking were roaring beneath her.

The wall in front of her curved forward, acting as the ceiling for whatever lay under her feet. It was unlike the wall behind her, in that it was not several solid layers of stone and wood. Rather, it was like the walls built by wizards long ago that supported her home—rocks the size of a giant's head piled atop each other, bound into place by magic.

There was a gap between two not far from her, from which the sound of voices so familiar encouraged her to come nearer. She climbed atop one and then another until she could peer through the crevice. As the green light of the cavern beneath filled her eyes, a wide, satisfied leer consumed her.

Below her, she saw Romulus, and before him the Dark Lord upon a great and fearsome throne. Oh, she knew it! At breakfast Romulus had lied through his teeth. She knew as soon as his lips curled around the first word that each one to follow would be false. The house had practically grown limbs and lungs, yet still he grinned, waved it all away, and said things were perfectly ordinary.

She stretched her lips into a most alluring smile, and kept herself from claiming bullocks. He had focused so much of himself on impressing her that he would never allow for anything ordinary to occur—lest she began associating him with the word. But the more he lied, the greater the secret grew, and by the final course it had grown into a monster.

Romulus rose from his stance, and the Dark Lord, as if sensing Narcissa, glanced in her direction. But she did not hide or run away; she remained, waiting for the scene to unfold.

A great clatter resounded from the mouth of the cavern. Swords, battle-axes—relics of the Lestrange legacy—crashed to the ground. The aftermath of spells illuminated the space before the source, and a figure emerged. Men in dark robes wearing masks both menacing and intriguing to Narcissa filled the cavern and lined the walls, flanking the Dark Lord. The figure—a man—progressed further toward Lord Voldemort, but still she could not see.

She climbed further atop the boulder, an action which afforded her the advantage of a closer proximity to the Dark Lord. Her name—the same inviting hiss—pressed through the cracks, and she made herself as close to the scene as she could be. The figure stepped forward, and for a moment began to look familiar, before he kneeled at Lord Voldemort's feet.

"You have successfully overcome every obstacle we placed before you." The Dark Lord straightened in his throne, his tone vaguely proud. "Well done, young one, well done." He gestured to the Death Eater at his left as he spoke, "Your shattering of Knott's Cruciatus curse was most impressive."

"Thank you, your Grace," the voice was quiet, distant, and by the time it reached Narcissa it was but an echo.

The Dark Lord watched the man before him for a moment. "What brings you here?" he asked. "What has called you," the following words were formed slowly, like freezing ice, "to my service?"

The flames along the wall shivered in the shifting air. Narcissa was enraptured with anticipation, she pressed closer still.

"Noblesse oblige," the figure said, his voice perfectly clear. It traveled through space and sound in the smallest moment, and rang in Narcissa's ear. It struck so quickly in her mind, she felt the words were spoken solely for her.

Her breath quickened, her spine stiffened, and Narcissa as we will know her began to form.

There was a small sound that resounded from behind her, but so fixed was she on the proceedings beneath that she hardly paid it any mind.

The Dark Lord was increasingly intrigued. When he first proposed the question, he flipped his wand from finger to finger, but now it was still—clutched tightly in his palm. He watched the man for many moments, apparently working on a matter greater than those before him could conceive. Finally, the Dark Lord opened his mouth to speak.

A hand traced the shape of her leg—it was warm, familiar, wanting. It raised the hem of her robes, and a pair of lips met the flesh at the back of her knee, tickled, teased. Her breath became unsteady. "Beautiful," Romulus said, the word hushed—perhaps accidentally spoken.

"Lumos Maxima," Narcissa whispered, and her suitor was clearly outlined in the cold blue light.

She lost focus of the Dark Lord, of the man before him, of the words that etched themselves into her bones. Her breath halted briefly, for as she turned to face Romulus, she was struck by the strength that surged through him, the confidence of the smile that spread slowly over his face. And was for the first time keenly aware that she was perhaps the only person who'd never given him what he wanted, the moment he wanted it.

A rakish smile transformed her lips and deviated her eyes. "You lied to me this morning," she stated haughtily.

"About what?" he asked innocently as his lips brushed over the flesh he had uncovered. He continued higher, becoming bolder when she did not stop him.

"The Dark Lord," she replied, through the release of a satisfied sigh.

"I don't believe we ever spoke of him," he answered, pausing momentarily to glance at her as he spoke.

"Precisely the problem." She placed two elegant, delicate fingers beneath his chin, halting his progression. "I hardly find what's going on beneath us perfectly ordinary."

She crouched, descending to his height, and drew him near. Her silvery hair shone like waves of stardust in the lumos-light, her skin glowed like the moon on the sea. She leaned closer, let him feel the warmth that rolled forward from her skin, smell her lovely perfume. And then she kissed him—her lips parted minutely, brushed over his gently. He responded with great fervor, his lips pleading for hers. But she maintained a punishing distance, and with each attempt at enticing her closer, she stayed teasingly out of reach.

The Dark Lord assessed Lucius as he dueled three of his soldiers. He parried with great skill and was a most talented fighter. He was not especially strong, nor was he markedly quick. But he was cunning, oh so very cunning. And fortunately for dear Lucius that is what the Dark Lord preferred most of all, for strength and speed could be learnt, but a sharp and clever mind was a mark of those born greatest.

Lucius's words lingered in Lord Voldemort's mind. Noblesse oblige, he loved the very thought of it. It suited his purposes so perfectly. Words from another had not embraced his pride so thoroughly since those spoken by Miss Black.

He searched for her. She was near. He could sense her in the air above. Nagini hissed her name through the air again, and the most curious event transpired. In an instant, Lucius stunned his dueling partners, and looked all about the cavern, searching, yearning. The Dark Lord turned to Nagini, amused. Had the boy heard it too?

Nagini hissed her name once more. This time Narcissa turned to them, her hair flashing in the space she occupied above, and unmistakable recognition was clear across Lucius's face.

A dark, hoarse rattle, a ghost of legitimate joy rattled through Lord Voldemort. "Enough," he decreed, satisfied. "Step forward."

"Who is that?" Narcissa asked from her perch.

Romulus shrugged, disinterested. "Just a recruit."

"But he looks young," stated Narcissa, turning away from him again. "Perhaps my age."

"The Dark Lord has plans for you, you know," said Romulus, wanting her full attention.

"Plans?" she asked, transfixed.

"Mhmm, he wants you to accompany me on a tour of potential allies."

"But why?" Her eyes narrowed and her mind swam in this new light.

Romulus smiled smugly. "He felt that your presence would leave no room for disloyalty."

Terrifying, gleeful ambition consumed her. Her teeth were suddenly sharp and strong, her eyes bright and wild. When she spoke, her voice possessed an overwhelming clarity and pride, "When do we leave?"

Beneath her, Lucius kneeled at Lord Voldemort's feet, his arm within the dark wizard's hand. The Dark Lord pressed the tip of his wand to Lucius's forearm, and a mark the shape of a skull and a snake began to grow within his flesh.

The mark was not possessed by ink like the marks of many others. It was grand and dark and binding—mightier than the magic that swam in his blood, pushed through his heart, and bound his bones together.

Noblesse oblige, indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, all!<strong>

**I know this story has been on hiatus for about a year now, but I'm very excited to be back! While on hiatus I made a tumblr as a source for pictures that inspired me, and things of that nature. The name is virtueofthevicious-hpff if you're interested. Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

Narcissa walked serenely along the final steps of the path from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade, absorbing the unusual quiet that accompanied her decision to go alone. While usual trips with Aurelia in previous years had not necessarily been boisterous, her beloved cousin possessed a certain brightness of spirit that occupied any opportunity for a still moment. This, coupled with Narcissa's choosing to maintain a markedly large gap between herself and the rest of the Hogwarts students who had already rushed into the release of a weekend's freedom, created a tangible hush that cocooned her in her favorite form of privacy.

Content in the company of solely her own thoughts, she hardly noticed Lucius detach from his new girl friend and sink to a kneeling position in front of Gladrags Wizardwear, with the feeble purpose of tying his shoe. That is, until he rose from his stance at the precise moment the crunch of the road beneath her feet alerted him to her close proximity. She halted her progress along the rock and dirt route and surveyed the sight before her: his hair had grown longer—and would have appeared shaggy, had he not styled it loosely back—his form remarkably more Herculean, and his face—most shockingly—appeared slightly aged—considerably less like the boy she had grown up with and more like the man she now supposed he was becoming.

At this appearance of shadowy stubble along his jaw, a certain hollow in his cheeks, and a sense of authority in his eyes that was suddenly merited, it occurred to Narcissa how little contact she had had with him over the past few months. She noticed him watching her at meals and in the Common Room… and the increased intensity in his gaze on the nights she returned from weekend courtings with Romulus. But she had not realized until this moment that heated glances and icy glares had been the full extent of their communication since the first night of this term.

She felt, in part, compelled to smile, embrace him like the old friend he was, and tease him over the increasing length of his hair, but there was a certain hardness in the set of his mouth and a spark of dark humor in his eye that deterred her. Instead, she chose to fortify her ego and said, "My, you're a master of subtlety. I suppose the rest of them didn't notice there aren't actually any laces on your shoes."

Frankly, this hole in his plan had not occurred to Lucius, for he had spent very little time thinking on it. Rather, he simply noticed an opportunity, and after an extended period of time in which he had absented himself from her, he could not resist the chance to be nearer. As a result, when she spoke, he had nothing prepared to say—the only thought that crossed his mind was the unmistakable flash of silvery blonde hair he had witnessed so many weeks ago in the Lestrange mansion bequeathed to Romulus.

At his lack of response, Narcissa scoffed and continued on into the village, seeking to reestablish her privacy, but Lucius simply fell in step next to her, eliminating any chance of Narcissa spending this time alone.

"Shouldn't you be catching up to your new girl?" she questioned in an attempt to be rid of him, for his closeness was causing a mix of feelings deep within her she wished not to dwell upon.

"No," he answered bluntly and continued with condescension, "I think it rather a better use of my time to establish you're actually here, and not simply my imagination playing tricks. You're rarely in school over the weekends, after all."

She slowly turned to look at him, a sly trap of a smile on her lips and in her eyes, "And why would you be imagining I'm here? Does your mind spend a great deal of time dreaming of me? Is your new girl not enough?" She sought to mock him openly and arrogantly, for the obvious similarity in appearance between his current girlfriend and herself irritated her quite fully. "And I hardly feel it is your responsibility to know where I spend my time."

Without another word to him, she stopped in her tracks and turned into Hengist's Haunt, the bar named after the founder of the village who was still rumored to reside in apparitional form in his favorite corner of the liquor cellar, and the preferred location of of-age Slytherins for Hogsmeade visits. She was hoping to finally loose his company, but noticed with a cantankerous glance behind her that he had followed her like an impertinent shadow. She huffed in frustration and coldly continued to the counter, muttered, "Just give me a bottle," to the bartender behind the bar (who had routinely snuck her alcohol of choice into Hogwarts grounds), grabbed the large bottle of Firewhiskey and the glass he handed her, and stomped away into the darkest corner of the bar, Lucius behind her the whole while.

With a withering pout, Narcissa slid into a booth and slammed the bottle on the table. "Do you intend to continue this bullocks all day?"

He slid in next to her, took the bottle, filled the glass, and drained the liquor in one fluid movement. She shifted as far away from him as she could in the narrow booth, seeking to establish a boundary between them. He set the glass back on the wooden surface, and with a slightly dazed look now in his eyes said, "Were you really going to spend all day drinking alone?"

"Of course not" she spat, removing the glass from his hand and filling it herself. "_This_,"she raised her full glass of bitter spirits, "is an attempt to tolerate you and your insufferable ego if your presence must continue."

He laughed fully as she drained the dark whiskey from the glass, and she glared at the appearance of his charm in the broad smile that stretched across his face. He waved his hand in the air as if clearing away all that had been discussed while in the bar. "Regardless," his voice was low, nearly a growl as he spoke, " it is not _where_ you spend your time, but who with." As he thought on her spending so many weekends alone with Romulus, his jaw clenched and hand contracted into a fist beneath the table—he could not tolerate the thought of her spending time with any man but himself.

This statement aggravated Narcissa so fully she felt nearly compelled to slap him, but she refrained herself, for it was not an action appropriate for a woman of her class and rank. "Whom _I_ spend my time with?" she responded incredulously. "Has the considerably lower rank of your current _girl friend_ escaped your notice?"

"At least she acts her place," Lucius uttered with contempt, stealing away the whiskey, "and does not spend time with men who are scandalously her senior."

"Please," she hissed with age-old arrogance, "she is so nouveau riche you mine as well be dating a fetus. Her grandmother is _American_, for Merlin's sake. And scandalously my senior?" She cried with a laugh. "He is only eleven years older than me. That is hardly out of the ordinary for our kind." Narcissa swallowed a large gulp of whiskey, "There is absolutely nothing scandalous about our courtship," she finished coldly, knowing this last statement was in part a lie.

"There is a great deal disreputable when you accept his advances while betrothed to another," he replied.

Narcissa paused the midway progress of the glass to her mouth, for this was the most ridiculous assertion she could think of. "Betrothed?" she questioned indignantly, slamming the glass back to the table, the Firewhiskey sloshing beyond the containment of the mug and onto the wooden surface.

Lucius's countenance too grew dark, and she edged closer to him so as to emphasize the outrage in her words, "That agreement is only valid if you propose courtship the day I come of –"

He grasped her arm and pulled her closer, a sense of purpose and a spark of want in his eyes, "you _belong_ with me."

"The day I come of age," she continued on, ignoring his statement, for she feared if she acknowledged it, the swoop of feeling that currently danced across her most sensitive nerves would overwhelm her. "You," she hissed, "did no such thing! It was _y_our choice!"

He was not hurt by her obvious disregard of his words; in fact, he quite enjoyed how hard she was working to put them behind her—the uncharacteristic explosion of spirit she was currently performing. It caused a blush to rise in her cheeks and an incomparable spark of light to replace the cold and distant look she usually maintained in her eyes. Yet his favorite product of her anger was that she had chosen to shout in his face, causing her warm breath to tickle his skin, and the heat of her form to reach out to him. "I didn't think –" he began to reply.

"You didn't think what?" she continued over him. 'That I didn't have any other prospects? That I had any other thought in my head beyond a longing to be your wife? What? Was I supposed to sit around and wait for the great and proud Lucius Malfoy to get off his arse and honor an arrangement that had been agreed upon the moment I reached puberty?"

He could not help but laugh at her final question, it had not occurred to him she was aware he'd made his preference for her known to his father the moment he'd noticed she'd grown breasts.

"You repugnant, arrogant pig," she barked at his laughter. Her anger turned bitter at the apparent lack of effect of her words. She paused, turning to look over at the group of Slytherins who wandered in not long after she and Lucius had, sitting at the opposite side of the bar, and a terrifying smile illuminated her features. "Do you think I haven't noticed your newest tart resembles a _desperate_ attempt to have me?" she questioned with menacing confidence.

The girl of subject had been repeatedly looking over at her boy friend from her seat amongst the other group, an increasingly threatened expression on her face. At this moment, she chose to look over to Lucius again, and Narcissa took this opportunity to smile—her little teeth sparkling through the dim light, sharp and dangerous as a wolf's—and blow her a kiss—effectively communicating her dominance, her ability to effortlessly rip this boy away from the girl in a matter of moments. The resulting look of extreme concern caused Narcissa to laugh fully, and her face was bright with the victory of captured and slaughtered prey when she turned back to Lucius.

In an act of complete callousness, he hardly cared for the girl Narcissa had just caused to be woefully insecure. In fact, he quiet liked seeing the vicious glee in her face, as he had always wondered if such a side existed within Narcissa, and was more than delighted to see it come to fruition.

Narcissa drew closer and dropped her voice to a night-dark whisper. "Is she an _effective_ copy, Malfoy?" Each syllable was emboldened by her whiskey provided courage. "Does she kiss you the way you imagine I would? _Hmm_?" Lucius stiffened and the smile dropped from his face as she ran her hand with a teasing fragility up the outer edge of his leg. "Does she wrap herself around you the way I have in your dreams?" In her next words she sank her teeth deep into his pride, leaving barbed punctures in his ego: "Or do you have to spend all your energy pretending it's my hair you pull when she teases you right, and my thigh your hand grabs in stolen moments alone?"

Lucius was silent for a few following moments, his eyes glossed over, body entirely still, and Narcissa took these as signs of her triumph. Now that she had torn apart his ego, she would be free of his judgment for about a month or so, she estimated, as that was the amount of time required for his unabridged arrogance to rebound. She smiled contentedly, and began to wonder after how many books she would collect today from her favorite High Street bookshop.

However, her plans were once again to be disrupted, as she could not have been more wrong in concluding the meaning Lucius absorbed from her questions. His pride, yes, had been wounded, but he could attend to that later, for now his mind was ensnared with the scenes she had breathed life into. He had imagined them all before, of course, but to see them slip from dream to reality as they strutted forward from her lips was to have them as close within his physical reach as extending his fingers a few small inches to the hem of her skirt and push it upward until her garters gave way to the silky, snow-white promise of her flesh.

This possibility of her forbidden skin was the dawn of a flood full of wanting. His mind reeled at the thought of his hands tracing her curves, memorizing the particular fluidity with which her miniature waist became the hips of a woman, her long, lissome legs… The warmth of her beneath him, those legs—_those legs_—locking him close, divulging the longing for him she had kept within herself _every_ moment he was near. He would kiss and bite along her neck the way he'd envisioned she liked, teasing the thin skin of her clavicle to the response of her hand gripping at his back—her hands: one he would keep locked in his above her head, the other would remain wherever she felt would best express her appreciation for his actions. His pupils dilated at the thought of his lips descending lower to the swells of her chest, kissing softly until she cried out his name in desperation—wanting _more_—and he would oblige because he loved the sound of his name as it crescendoed from her lips—_his _name…

"How many times have you called him _my _name in bed?" he replied, his voice equally threatening, now taking up her challenge. The arrogance fled from her at the sight of his intensity. He raised his hand and brushed her silvery hair away, cupping the side of her face, and bringing her so close his forehead came to rest against hers. "_Hmm_?" he mocked. As he held her gaze, she wanted to pull away, but could not bring herself to—not when her heart beat so hard against her skin she wouldn't be surprised if he felt it—not when her lips parted at the nearness of his, nerves aching with longing, humming with want beneath the thin rosy flesh. No. Not when she _truly_ wanted nothing more than to clutch him closer, grip at his hair, breathe his name while they kissed, nipped, teased at hidden skin.

At the very thought, her eyelashes insisted upon fluttering to a close, for if she could not see perhaps it all would cease, and she would have control again. But as her eyes faded into black, her lashes brushed against his skin, and he took this moment to move minutely away. His lips now skimming the sensitive skin of her ear, he spoke—his voice so quiet and low she wondered if he was speaking at all, or if her mind was simply filling in where she would not allow her actions to go—"Can he do _that_, Narcissa? Can he make you want for it all without so much as a kiss?"

She released a small little gasp as his lips brushed the curve of her neck, his stubble scratching her delicate skin in an attitude she wouldn't reject. His other hand trailed through her hair and up her back, causing her to unconsciously press her form against his. He returned his attention to her face, and smoothly brought his lips to hers. Again, she willed herself to move away, to at the very least not respond to his advances, but at the contact of his lips every nerve close to his ached—nearly begged—for more. She responded against her better judgment, her lips working with his, parting at his prompting. Catching his bottom lip between hers, Narcissa lightly dragged her teeth across the thin flesh, teasing him, releasing her frustration in a manner most appreciated. The hand at her back gripped the curve of her waist, and at this impossibly close proximity she could feel the contours of his muscular torso through their robes. She raised her hand to the back of his neck, increasing the pressure of their connected lips, lightly raking her nails across the skin where his hair tapered away to expose flesh.

At this Lucius's lips descended to just below her jaw, nipping at her skin, causing her to release a high sigh of satisfaction. She felt him smile against her, and this, she felt, was the blessed action that caused her pride to interrupt her lust. Finally, she pulled away, but he held her just as close as they had been before they kissed.

"You cannot tell me," he breathed, "after that, that you have no feelings for me."

His smile was smug and proud and caused Narcissa to harden. "For you," she began, and broke his embrace, sliding away, her face now a stone cold pout. As she responded, the characteristically distant look returned to her eyes, "I feel nothing."

"Bullocks," he replied, venom sinking into each syllable. He grabbed her wrist as she began to stand, and as she turned to look back at him, she was startled by the determination set within his features. He rose to his feet as well—quite tall with his back straight and proud—leaned in, and spoke in a whisper. "You don't _moan_ for a man you couldn't care less about, Narcissa. You feel for me, you feel quite a lot. I know it, you know it, and soon Lestrange will too."

"I didn't…" she started to deny vehemently, but stopped herself, for there was nothing she could say that would erase that one little slip of control. "Regardless," she continued coldly, "You wasted your chance, Malfoy… You've lost me."

"I _never_ lose what's important to me."

She shook her hand free from his grasp, and shrugged, ignoring the shiver that ran along her skin at his words. "We'll see."

At that she turned away, and proceeded to leave him, placing a few sickles on the bar, and casting a smug glance at his girl, but never bothering to look back.


	11. Chapter 11

The Hogwarts Express chugged along reliantly, its wheels delivering the gleeful promise of Christmas vacation with each track it covered.

Cecilia's excitement grew as the train drew closer to London, she longed for Christmas the moment her calendar read December, and now that the holiday was approaching as quickly as the Express, she was nearly giddy. The landscape through their train car window glittered with snow, as perfect as a postcard, and her mind wandered to whether she'd see Lucius over the holiday.

He sat beside her, although he did not touch her, and Rabastan sat across from him. When they boarded the train, he did not discourage her from sitting with them, but he had been curiously, uncharacteristically distant the entirety of the ride. The three chatted politely, but beyond that, the car was quiet—Rabastan dozing in his seat, Lucius absorbed in his book regarding 18th century wizarding-war tactics.

When a girl walked past their car, Cecilia recognized her without a doubt. Not because she was clearly seen—in fact, she was hardly more than a blur in Cecilia's peripheral vision—but because of the manner in which Lucius reacted. He leapt from his seat, discarded his book to the floor, and threw the door open in one continuous motion, so loud that it awoke his friend. It could only be Narcissa.

Cecilia turned her attention toward the window. It did not occur to her that perhaps this was not acceptable behavior for a boyfriend—that she ought to be angry, _indignant_ over his actions. Nor did it occur to her that he ought to be enamored with her for her own self, not her vague resemblance to another. She did not know any better. She did not want to. It was simply easier to be naïve.

"Cissa," Lucius called down the hallway, and Narcissa turned without a thought.

She was glad many of the train car curtains were pulled as she watched him approach, although she was unsure as to why. She leaned against the cool glass, the large window behind her revealing the end of the country as London absorbed its edges.

Lucius drew close, but did not say a word. He searched for them—across the plains of his mind and beneath his tongue—but none formed on his lips. He could not stop himself from recalling the last moment they had been so close, and his hand reached forward, running along the edge of her cloak.

She was no longer in her woolen uniform robes; rather, the set she wore was mauve in shade and frothy like the sweet foam that floats to the top of butter beer. She was paralyzingly lovely.

"Is there something you need from me?" she asked, her voice guarded in tone.

"Yes," he replied, at a loss for a true answer.

Her skin was so like the winter just beyond the glass. He watched as the changing light splashed across her, illuminating and concealing at each passage of a tree. The train continued forward, the clacking of wheels running like a lullaby through its passengers.

"And that would be?" she raised her eyebrow apprehensively.

He exhaled loudly and withdrew his hands from his pockets. "What are your plans for the holiday?" he offered as weak reasoning.

She fiddled with her bag, retrieving her gloves before she answered him. "Well, Aurelia and Titus are getting married on the new year."

Lucius nodded, "big preparation plans to help with, then?"

Narcissa's brow crossed, "No, I'll be abroad the majority of the holiday." As she spoke, she fixed one glove over her hand and forearm, then the other, not meeting his eyes. Until: "Did you really stop me just to chat?"

She was vaguely annoyed. The train was practically in the city by now, and she wanted to gather her belongings before they pulled into the station.

"No," he stated, and took her hand, adjusting the clasp that closed her glove around her wrist. He brushed his thumb over the thin skin, savoring her warmth, before sliding the small pearl into its fastener. "I…"

But no words followed, for he was incapable of communicating, of understanding his instinctual need to be near her.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his grasp. "Have a good holiday," she murmured, and turned away.

She returned to her car, where Gillian was picking at a tin of strawberry-jam thumbprints. Narcissa stretched across her seat, resting her head against the window. A wealth of joy formed within her, as King's Cross was in sight. Aurelia would be there, waiting to take her home. She desperately longed to see her dearest friend; they would ready Narcissa for her trip, discuss Aurelia's wedding plans, and perhaps… Narcissa sighed, perhaps make sense of Malfoy.

Her fingers lingered over the bit of fabric Lucius had touched, and a wave of feeling crashed over her nerves

* * *

><p>Lucius had watched her walk away; he could not think of another word to tell her, and she was gone before he could reach for her again. He remained in the hall for a few moments after she departed, watching the air shift in her absence.<p>

She was so stubborn, so fixed on handling matters in her own way. But then again, so was he, and he was resolute in knowing whichever path they chose would end in each other. He could not see why she wouldn't yield to it.

When the Hogwarts Express arrived at the station, she brushed past him in her rush to exit the train, and where their skin had met, the air sparked with life. She turned to him, surprise and recognition clear on her face, but before he had time to comment, she was gone—her feet firmly on the platform, engulfed in Aurelia's joyous arms—and then she vanished with a polite little pop.

* * *

><p>The moment their feet landed in Narcissa's home, Aurelia was a rush of life. She set about unpacking Narcissa's trunk, sending robes flying to the wardrobe, perfume to the vanity, and books to their shelves. She cranked the phonograph, and the dulcet tones of jazz age singers crackled over the vinyl, into the air. She spun as she walked, awakening the purest form of bliss in Narcissa.<p>

She threw herself onto the bed, beside Narcissa, and propped herself on her elbow. "So what will you be doing on your glamorous trip to the East?"

"I haven't a clue," responded Narcissa.

"And you don't mind this?" asked Aurelia, her tone considerably more serious.

Narcissa opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, for the answer that readied itself on her lips surprised her. When she spoke her voice was quiet, as if she herself was listening for the truth in her words. "No. I believe I understand what the Dark Lord wishes my role in this to be, and somehow that enough satisfies me… Perhaps it is because it's the role I wish myself to have."

In part, Aurelia was proud of her dear Cissa, of the life she was shaping for herself—it was so right, that she take her part early on. It was precisely what Narcissa would have chosen, too—a new regime that enforces the principles of the old nobility. And who better to represent the best of the old world than the fairest of the Blacks? She was what the noble expected of the young: a generation that uses their power to enhance and enforce the legacy.

But… she was her dear little Cissa. Her most precious friend. And Narcissa was readying herself to place firm steps on shifting ground, accustomed to the earth forming to her. What if it did not? What if it swallowed her whole and returned her to Aurelia only in the very end? (Or worse, not at all?)

Aurelia looked at Narcissa, heard the magic laced in her words, and knew that she was simply growing into who she was supposed to be. But this knowledge did not help Aurelia any; she longed to gather Cissa up in her arms, convince her to stay, to think deeper, to court someone their age who could keep her safe and away from these newly forming dangers.

As much as she knew the delicate pink insides of her dearest Cissa were lined with the ambition that had lead to this decision, she desperately wanted to keep her safe.

"What about Malfoy?" Aurelia ventured. They had known the boy all their lives, their families' histories were endlessly intertwined. What was safer than the familiar?

Narcissa's brows creased and formed two little lines of frustration in her skin. "What?" she asked, instantly defensive, "what about him?"

"Well, what does he think of this?" Aurelia asked, playing at innocence.

"Think about what?" Narcissa stared at her friend, attempting to look past her beguiling charm. Her pride desperately wanted to dismiss the boy, but her mind halted the thoughts on her tongue. "He doesn't know," her words were drawn out, her head tilting as she attempted to divine Aurelia's intentions.

Aurelia narrowed her eyes, "he must know something. He's always been so enamored of you, he wouldn't have just dropped his pursuit, even if you're with someone else."

Narcissa pouted and her gaze became distant. A rakish smile illuminated Aurelia, "did something happen?"

Her dearest little Cissa toyed with the same stretch of fabric Lucius's fingers had brushed on the train.

"Cissa?"

"Not really," Narcissa said quietly, dismissing it with a shrug. "Nothing of consequence."

"The fact that anything happened is of consequence, especially when you belong to another."

Narcissa gave her a measured look, "I am not chattel. I do not belong to anyone."

Aurelia rolled her eyes, "Oh, come off it, are you really not going to tell me what happened?"

"We may have kissed," Narcissa muttered quietly.

"You kissed?" Aurelia beamed. "With the state you're in I'd imagined he'd persuaded you to join him in a broom closet to work out all your years of tension."

"Aurelia," Narcissa said, a slight bite in her tone, "it was nothing of great importance… And a broom closet, really?"

"Oh, remove that judgment from your tone," said Aurelia, "I'm no more a sinner than you—kissing two boys at once!" She shook her head, teasing Narcissa. "And what of Romulus?"

"We kiss too." Narcissa rose from her bed, drawing her favorite trunk from her dressing room—dark cherry mahogany and silver filigree.

"Do you kiss him like you kiss Lucius?"

"Aurelia!"

Aurelia sighed and accepted Narcissa's unwillingness to discuss the matter further.

She let the air sit still while she readied the courage to ask the question that had plagued her for some time now. "So what of this Lord Voldemort? What is he like?"

"He's interesting," Narcissa said absentmindedly as she assessed an opera gown.

Aurelia tutted, "and you're blonde."

Narcissa glared playfully. "He's… both menacing and magnanimous."

"He sounds like quite a man."

A sound like the hellacious rumble of thunder resounded from above them, and Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Apparently, Bella thinks so too."

"What? How in Merlin's beard would she know?" asked Aurelia, thoroughly confused.

Narcissa shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, but she seems… well, rather obsessed with him."

Aurelia sighed and sunk into Narcissa's bed. She had so very little interest in these politics, in altering the balance of blood. She repeatedly wished it away, but the mark of Lord Voldemort never ceased—it wrapped itself around Narcissa and seared itself into her fiancé's skin.

Narcissa noticed the palpable shift in Aurelia's mood, and, with a quick flick of her wand, sent the gown to her trunk. "Enough about all that," she said quietly as she settled in next to her. "How are the wedding plans?"

Aurelia knew the question was offered in an attempt to brighten her, but oddly, it did not. She searched for an answer, but found her tongue hollow. She could not fathom why such a question would prompt so little a response when her wedding was remarkably near. She could not understand why the preparations that were once so wonderfully indulgent in her romantic sensibilities were now unyieldingly tiresome. So, in reply, she simply said, "perfectly happy."

Narcissa could not find any reason for disbelief, but her words lacked their characteristic buoyancy. Before she could act on her doubt, Aurelia leapt to Narcissa's vanity, full of felicity, and Narcissa, so secretly full of eagerness for her trip, allowed her heart to absorb the truth, while her mind neglected it.

* * *

><p>Narcissa could not sleep. Not after a mug of warm chocolate cream, nor a walk about the garden. Each time her eyes recoiled beneath their lids and her breath receded to a steady hum, her mind noted how her bed always smelled of lavender, or how the mobile from her pram still trinkled out the tune of Clair de Lune above her.<p>

She sat up and sighed, for even the moonlight that spilled like ink through her windows appeared nostalgic in nature. She could not find the reason as to why a feeling of finality had settled into her heart. She would be returning to this very room in just a few weeks time, and back to Hogwarts in only a little more than that. But as she rose from her bed, Narcissa recognized a thread of thought in her mind saying goodbye.

Goodbye to the Slytherin scarf that was shrugged over her bedpost. Goodbye to the Arithmancy textbooks that filled her bookshelves. Goodbye to the shoes Lucius had dropped into a punch bowl over the summer.

She descended to a seat before her trunk, hugging her knees to her chest. The lock clicked as she slid it away, and the silver filigree crossed and laced until the trunk was left wide open, revealing the entirety of its contents.

She was dreadfully over-packed, but she hardly knew what was to occur in Istanbul, let alone Prague. The little she knew of the Turks was the preference for liberal applications of pomade and the heavy consumption of dark meats that she'd gleaned from the funny Turkish fellow that had taught Ancient Runes for a year or two in her early time at Hogwarts. She felt woefully unprepared.

Yet, however ignorant was of what was to come, it was readiness that pushed the blood beneath her skin, not dread. She was ready—to say goodbye—to grasp at what life so desperately wanted to offer her.

A gossamer figure sat at the foot of her bed, observing her grace and the path of her thoughts. She sensed him before she saw him, in the same way one senses they are loved. She continued neatening her dresses and straightening her shoes before she raised her eyes to look at him. He was not a ghost—the binds of death did not hesitate in the atmosphere surrounding him—but a flicker of her future, a slice of a soul bound to hers in every way it could be. She knew him in her bones, recognized him in the blood and muscle that built her heart. When she reached out to him, nothing but familiarity brushed her fingertips.

Yet, for all the knowledge her heart possessed of him, her mind was absent in understanding—in fact, it was still absorbed in recounting all that she had packed, imagining every conceivable event she may need to be prepared for. It even went so far as to pack itself away, placing the following actions in the same illogical trunk as her daydreams.

Although she could not touch him, Narcissa traced the square line of his jaw, certain she had kissed one very much like it in her last trip to Hogsmeade. Her hand rose to the cheekbones that stretched the thin skin beneath his eyes, and—his eyes… Grey—like a storm cloud ready to cast lightning—filled with the cackling potential they were ready to unfurl. She would recognize them even in the dark. They were always so full of cunning.

Were her mind ready to accept where her choices were leading her, it would have been able to see the Lucius at the end of her fingertips. But it was so very obstinate, and thus was blind to the sliver of her future that had come to encourage her forward.

"How far from you am I?" her instincts asked, bending her mouth to the words while her mind was alternatively occupied. "I am quite ready to meet you."

He had been present all her life—a glimpse of magic in the sunlight streaming through the window of Ollivander's when she received her wand, a particularly strong heartbeat upon her first kiss. He was not the boy from her childhood, nor the teenager that teased her in school, but the premonitional promise of their future that accompanied her as she grew.

"Not very," he replied, his voice sounding as if it were beneath water, distant from her.

She brushed her fingers through his hair and the locks passed her skin like grains of sand. "You look so similar to the boy I know."

His grin was full and ripe, wolfish with its expression of anticipation and fervor. "Than I'm not far from you at all."

Narcissa beamed at his reply, and watched him for a few more moments—stealing away as much of him as she could hold within her. As her clock ticked, her mind slowly began to regain control, and her awareness of him receded with every dawning thought. But he did not leave, for this midnight hour, when Narcissa readied herself for the life she would lead, was more important than any instant he had witnessed before.

As the growing pink and orange sun became yellow and bright, it soaked her room, and she dressed in her smartest robes, brushed her hair smooth and straight.

She was doing the latter, setting the final strand, when Romulus quietly opened her door. She turned to him in her own time, and it was due to this decidedly slow pace that a rather unwelcome feeling was able to seep into his insides. He did not—could not—see the piece of Lucius still present at the foot of her bed, but was nonetheless filled with a sense of not belonging. It seemed to him, in that moment, that the natural thing to do was turn away, close her door, and leave her to follow her fate.

He tried to shake this notion aside, and took its disappearance from his most current thinking as a sign of its end, not knowing it took the opportunity to sink deep into his bones.

"Ready to go?" his voice was calm and steady as it crossed the air, much as it was when he and Narcissa first met.

She smiled briefly at him while he moved her trunk with a quick swish of his wand. "Been ready for hours."

He wrapped his arms around her, his grip perhaps a bit tighter than usual, and they were gone.

* * *

><p>Lucius woke to find a most familiar figure standing before the mirror at the far side of his room. She was endlessly enchanting with her blond hair made of moonlight, her eyes fiercely blue. She stood before the smooth glass, admiring her reflection, adjusting her crown. She was taller, longer than the flesh-and-bones Narcissa Lucius was familiar with, and her feet never did quite reach the ground.<p>

A wide grin stretched over his skin, and he rose from his bed in order to receive a closer view. As he cast away his covers, the cold air that greeted him prompted a reach for his robe. But as he caught his own reflection in the mirror, he decided against it—he found himself quite dashing in solely his night-trousers.

His grin grew to a great laugh as he drew closer, noticing how thoroughly the diamond and silver crown was interwoven in her hair, sparkling beneath her skin. "Are you so unashamed of your vanity that it has now become an extension of your being?"

She turned to him, and her eyes were brighter than those within the body to which this piece of soul belonged, her cheeks sharper. "At least my vanity was an evolution. You, my dear, were born so vain even your nurse-teeth were full of it."

She was glorious, this psyche of Narcissa—lightning without the garish clap of thunder, for a heavenly boom is hardly as remarkable as the speechless wonder that accompanies quiet, unyielding power.

"But you were born with pride greater than the rest of ours," he replied, teasing her.

"Pride and vanity are different beasts," she stated, and returned her attention to her own reflection. "Vanity is believing you are the greatest, pride is knowing you are."

"And the latter isn't simply arrogance?"

Narcissa smiled smugly at him, "arrogance is questioning a soul on her acquired wisdom."

At this, Lucius's smile once again transformed into a laugh, for the Narcissa before him was unable to control the full extent of her feeling as the Narcissa he knew could, and he longed for her so desperately, that he attempted to absorb every little bit of this piece of her. "Tell me, why have you chosen tonight to visit?"

Her eyes met his in the glass, "Because I am leaving for Istanbul when the dawn rises, and this part of me that is so devoted to you has a fondness for checking in when large moments arise."

"But why is this trip an event in my life?" he asked, he was so ready to have the flesh-and-bones Narcissa within his grasp.

She turned to him and took his arm, and for many moments Lucius stood perfectly still. She had guided his hand when he chose his wand from the family collection when he was nine, encouraged his pride from within when he first successfully fired a stunning jinx, and teased the edges of his dreams every moment he attempted to be enamored of another. This Narcissa had never reached for him, and more remarkably, when he had attempted to touch her, she had felt like sinking a hand into the coldest water.

But now, as she traced the Dark Mark bound into his skin, she was warm, nearly flesh.

"It is the Dark Lord that has sent me—sent me with Romulus to strengthen the notion of the regime. And I have chosen to g-"

He grasped her hand, halting her words. "You're so warm," he said, stunned at the nearness of her.

She smiled lovingly, "This choice will lead to you, " she said, her voice a reverent whisper, "This choice will lead to lives not yours and mine, but ours."

The air within his lungs stirred; with each word she enlivened his instinctual want for her. "When?"

She was calm and bright when she said, "Rest assured, my love, we'll be ours very soon." And then she drifted from his vision like a dream, both elusive and familiar.


End file.
